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.
You Keep Spinning 'Round
Me Just the Same
By
Djinn
Part 1 - I Know I'm Not the Center of the Universe
Christine
He
never wanted me. I try to tell myself that, as I wait for his comm, and a bit
later, as I stand on my balcony watching the sidewalk he always takes, as I see
his hair, blue-black in the afternoon light.
As
he palms himself into my building, because of course I've put him on the door.
He
never wanted me. I murmur it as I pour the kind of sparkling water he prefers.
No ice cubes because he dislikes them.
I
used to think he disliked me. That may still be true.
Me.
The person. The brain inside this body he cannot seem to get enough of.
Me.
The friend of the woman he's living with.
Me.
The betrayer. For a man who never wanted me when he was free.
Me.
The idiot.
Only...
Only...
Only,
this is how I got Roger. He was with Andrea. It was no surprise to see her, not
really, in that android body. She was the one he loved. I was the one he was
addicted to. Addicted enough to give me a ring. Not addicted enough to stay.
Would he have broken the engagement if he'd come back?
I
think...I think he would have.
Addiction
wears off. I saw that when she was there, on that world where his mind was all
that was left of him. He was happy to see me—but why wouldn't he be? By the
time I got there, she'd have bored him again—bored his beautiful mind. His
powerful mind.
His
batshit crazy mind, at the end.
The
door chimes. Spock's on the access list, and he's palming the door open even
though the ring has barely faded. I think it's his way of telling me to put
aside the pensive thoughts—the bitter and angry and needy thoughts.
He
likes my body. The rest of me...who knows?
I
lift my chin as he walks toward me. He reaches for me and I feel anger.
This
man didn't want me and I'm sleeping with him anyway.
"I
didn't buy your soap." I practically spit the words at him.
He
used it up the last time he was here. He doesn't want to go home smelling of
sex with me, but he also doesn't want to go home smelling of unfamiliar soap
that she'd notice. So I buy him the kind he uses. He dilutes it, so it doesn't
smell like he just took a shower.
A
thinker, this man who fucks me but isn't mine.
He
holds up a bag. "I anticipated you would not buy it."
We
stare at each other. He knows I'm angry. I know he doesn't care that I did or
didn't buy him his soap, that I am or am not angry. It should be enough to end
this.
"She's
prettier than I am." I don't ask; it's a fact. Nyota is a beauty; I'm
just...good looking.
"Yes."
He tilts his head.
"She's
not smarter than I am."
"No.
But she is not unintelligent."
It
is the Vulcan way to speak in double negatives. And this is a ritual. He's
using me, and I want him to know that I harbor no illusions. Each and every
time, I want him to know that.
"I'm
better in bed."
He
looks away, taking in my apartment as if it's the first time he's seen it.
But
it's not. He's fucked me in every room of this place. Multiple times.
"Yes,"
he finally says.
I
move closer. I pull him down to me and when our lips almost touch, I whisper,
"You're cheating on her. You're an asshole."
The
last part is new. The last part is a slap in his face, and I can tell by the
way he backs up that he feels the words deep inside him. But then he looks in
the kitchen and he frowns—an honest expression—and the look he turns on me
is...tender?
"That
is one of his glasses. You would not let me use them before."
He's
not wrong. He's referring to Jim's double old-fashioned glasses. The ones he
drank his scotch sours in. The last glass he used before he left for the launch
is the one I've poured Spock's water into.
I
guarded them. Left them sitting on the counter, making sure they were never
dusty. Never using them for my own drinks, let alone this clandestine lover's.
Missing Jim. Missing him so much.
Even
fucking his best friend—or maybe because I'm fucking him and doing nothing else
with him—doesn't alleviate the loneliness. Betraying another of his friends—of my friends—only makes it worse.
For
a year now. For a year today.
He
wouldn't approve of what we're doing here. But I think he'd understand it. The
pain Jim left in the wake of his sacrifice on the Enterprise-B leveled everything in its path. Including me. And this
man.
And
the woman Spock goes home to also. After he lost Jim, she offered Spock her
customary love, but he wanted to bury his rage and pain and sadness and
loneliness in something that would understand it measure for measure.
He
wanted me. Because I was his friend's woman. And because I was damaged like he
was.
And
so this started.
He
looks unaccountably touched as he hands me the bag and goes into the kitchen.
He handles the glass reverently. "It was a year last month that we lost
him."
"Yes,"
I say, because there's no other response to that. We waited a month. We'd run
into each other at Command—him fresh from his latest trip searching for Jim. No
body meant no death to him. Until that day. Until he gave up.
Giving
up meant finding me.
And
he did. He found me spitting mad at the world around me. Fun fact: some people
manifest grief as rage rather than sadness. They kick out instead of
withdrawing. I hadn't wanted Jim to go to the stupid launch. He'd hated
Harriman—mocked him too many times for it to make sense that he'd go.
Other
than it was an Enterprise, if not his
version of the ship.
That
day, in the corridor, coming out of ops, seeing Spock waiting for me. The look
on his face helpless. He hadn't needed to say anything. We understood what was
going to happen immediately. He needed to assuage his guilt for giving up by
doing something that would be an even greater betrayal. I needed to do the same
thing with my rage and who better than her man—she'd told me that she was afraid of me. That I needed to see
someone. My best friend: afraid of me. I wonder what she feels now?
Does
she know? I don't care if she does. The part of me that should care was
hollowed out from Jim's death and now it's filled with whatever this is with
Spock.
I
take the soap into the bathroom, put it in the shower, and discard the empty
container. When I look up, into the mirror, he's behind me, studying me. I lift
my chin; I don't ever let him see weakness.
"Do
you wish to end this?" he asks softly.
"Do
you?"
He'll
blink first. I've always sworn it. I have a bet with myself when he'll do
that—we bet on anything in ops, you see. I think he'll call it off on her
birthday. When she smiles up at him, in that half seductive/half sweet way she
has, and tells him she loves him.
Not
cheating on her will be his present. Who says Vulcans aren't sentimental?
If
I'm right, we have two months left.
He
holds the glass up, but instead of drinking, he pulls me against him, my back
to his chest, and lifts the glass to my lips.
Drink
this in remembrance of me. It's sacrilegious, but this man has become my
religion, the way I order my time, the way I think of what is and isn't mine.
The
way I don't like to spend time with one of my best friends. The way I think she
looks at me, like she knows.
When
why should she? What Vulcan would ever cheat?
But
he's half human. And she's human. And Vulcans can't bond with humans. Little
known fact he shared with me one day when I asked him how she didn't just know he was cheating on her.
It's
far less permanent than it seemed between them. Funny how she never told me
that, let me believe they were headed for forever.
I
drink, sipping with my eyes closed, remembering how Jim touched me before he
left. His kiss. His murmured "I love you." It was casual because he
didn't know he wouldn't be coming back. I was distracted because I didn't know
it was the last time I'd ever see him.
And
this man taking the glass and drinking from it, too, wasn't even on the planet.
He and Ny were on Risa, having fun, at her insistence. She'd wanted a vacation,
almost nagged him into it. They got back as the news reports played.
I
think sometimes that's the other reason he sought me to bury his pain in. She
represents what took him away. And I know this because he's told me that—when I
asked her about the trip, she said it was fun till the end. She put on the
saddest look in the world as she said it. As if somehow her losing my lover was
a bigger loss than my losing him.
But
she knows what she did. She knows, just as I do, that Jim wanted Spock at the
launch. To offset Harriman getting the ship, he needed his best friends there.
But
Spock was on Risa with her, and Len was teaching a medical seminar on Andoria. And I was in ops. He never thought to ask me to
come. It had been so long since I'd been part of his crew. Part of his life,
yes. But not something he linked in his mind with the ship he was losing for
good.
His
one true duranium love.
I
think, if asked, dying to save her would be the way he'd have wanted to go.
I
lean back, and Spock pushes more firmly against me—supporting me. It's
unexpected. When I think of us, I don't think of him taking care of me.
"I
am not...unmoved by you, Christine."
I
meet his eyes in the mirror. This is new. A gift of some sort. I frown, and he
leads me out of the bathroom and to the bedroom. We stand, chest to chest, and
he pulls me in for a hug, and some of the water splashes on my neck but I'm too
busy marveling at his actions to complain.
He's
not given to affection. That isn't what we're about.
"I
miss him," he says, so softly that I know he'll let me ignore the
statement if I want.
"I
miss him, too." And I do miss him, but it's been a year, and now I will miss
Spock when he leaves me to go home to his woman, my friend.
And
if I'm right, in two months, he will leave and never come back again.
I'll
enjoy this while I have it. I will writhe and moan and come, over and over
because he loves to give me that.
It
may be all he can give me. And we both know it.
We're
pragmatic, after all. Highly logical, the both of us. Scientists.
He
sets the glass on the bedside table, his finger sliding down the side, putting
a vertical line in the condensation—he may not like ice, but he likes his water
chilled.
I
reach over and put another line, bisecting his, running perpendicular. The plus
sign. The additive signal.
He
looks at me and his gaze is thoughtful. I know I'm giving him nothing by my
expression, but if he wants to know what I'm feeling, he only has to touch my
skin. Telepathy is a double-edged sword, though. He can find out so much he
doesn't want to know, too.
He
traces an "S" through the condensation and I laugh, a sound that's
jarring in this bedroom, with him. We never laugh.
He's
never whimsical.
But
he looks at me as if daring me to finish it, so I reach over and put the
"C" on the other side of the plus sign. It can be wiped away in a
second. Nothing so solid as inscribing it on a bench or a tree or a rock.
But
still it is there. We have written it. S
+ C.
He
doesn't wipe it away. He just stares at it.
"Do
you want to be here?" I ask as gently as I can. Normally, we're harder
with each other but he's so...pensive.
"I
do. Too much." He meets my eyes. "You understand a part of me that
others do not."
By
others he means his lover, his girlfriend, his goddamned fiance.
Yes,
I am doing this when he's going to marry someone else. He proposed on Risa.
Just as she wanted him to do.
But
others also mean his mother and his father and Len and the rest of the crew.
"Did Jim know? How you could be?"
He
shakes his head. "He would be angry that I was using you in this
fashion."
It's
a cold-edged truth that he's never said—that he uses me—and yet he sounds forlorn when he says it. As if he regrets
the act, not me.
"I
think," I say as gently as I can, "that he would be angrier that
you're cheating on Ny."
"Yes,
that too."
I
stare at what we've inscribed on the glass. The moisture is starting to drip,
soon our message will be illegible, nothing more than a ring on the coaster the
glass sits on. "Do you believe that?" I point to the glass.
"There
is something between us."
"Yes,
her name is Nyota Uhura."
"I
do not mean in that way." He brushes the idea of her away. He is excellent
at compartmentalizing. Sometimes I think she doesn't exist for him when he's
here. That until he gets in the shower and pumps out some of his soap, he's a
free man simply enjoying himself with a woman.
Not
betraying someone he ostensibly loves.
He
pulls off my clothing, nothing sensual in the way he does it. We've been at
this for a year. We don't waste time with small things.
But
he never assumes I'm ready, always takes time, has never hurt me. Should I be
grateful? That he's a considerate lover?
And
a good one.
I
pull him into me, and try to remember what it felt like with Jim. He wasn't
lanky, his voice not so gravelly, and I didn't run my hands over this much hair
on his chest. And he laughed—he loved to laugh and talk and touch, for hours
after sex. It was lovely and safe and warm. And I could have stayed with him
forever.
But
this man pushing into me is an excellent lover, too. In fact, as lovers, they
are equals.
As
loves, well, there's no comparison. Only one of them ever loved me.
And
I won't deceive myself that it will ever be any other way.
Spock
You
are thrusting, close to completion, and normally this would be the time you
close your eyes, that you hide the fact that the woman you are having sex with
is not the woman you have said you wish to marry. But today, you feel something
else and you keep your eyes open.
Christine
is watching you, and her look, as it has been throughout this afternoon, is
confused. Your tenderness mystifies her. You think Jim would be livid that you
have been with her a year and only now are showing her that you care.
She
reaches up and traces along your ear, murmuring for you to let go, to come, and
you do, kissing her almost savagely, wishing it were possible to bond with a
human because if it were, you would do it now, as you were in her, so that you
would not be betraying Nyota any longer.
If
you were true mates, what would an engagement matter?
An
engagement you were not entirely ready for, but Nyota had made clear she
desired. On a planet you never wanted to go to, but she has ways of making you
do things you do not want to do.
That
is less true now. That ended the day you stepped onto a shuttle and saw the
news about Jim. Lost. Lost when you should have been there.
"Spock,
let go." Christine's voice is husky and seductive with no artifice. She
never seduces you the way Nyota does, with batted eyes and clever lines.
Christine
doesn't seduce you at all. It may be what draws you the most to her. A year now
of taking her every way you can imagine and still, she is a mystery.
Still,
she is Jim's.
"Spock,
let go." There is something almost desperate in her emotions. You think
she believes that you will end this soon. You think she believes your guilt
will overtake you.
You
think she is wrong.
You
are not sure when you decided it was all right to be this man, one who had two
women, but you have decided that.
You
have just not shared it with either of them. Let Christine think you are
breaking your own code. Let Nyota believe you are faithful—although you think
she does not believe that anymore. But you do not meld for pleasure—or at
least, that is what you tell her.
"Spock,
God, don't let go. Not yet." You can feel Christine's climax building and
you smile slightly, pleased you can give her this, over and over. She has
closed her eyes so she does not see your satisfaction, only calls out your name
as she comes loudly and long.
If
this woman were yours, you would meld with her. That is the truth you hide from
both her and Nyota. That you wanted Christine, finally wanted her, but Jim had
decided the same thing. You had not told him you were inclined toward her—and
why would he think you were, after years of him urging you to give her a
chance? That you finally were going to acquiesce just as he discovered how much
he liked Christine was the greatest of ironies.
You
turned instead to Nyota. She is, as Christine says, more beautiful. But she is
not more desirable. Especially not when it was Christine you wanted in the
first place.
"May
I climax now?" you ask her, and she laughs, and the sound echoes in this
silken bedroom that you consider a haven. The two of you do not usually amuse
each other.
"Yes.
Let go. Sorry." Her voice is light, her lips turned up, and you lean in
and kiss her. She runs her fingers along your back, nail tips dancing up and
down, barely touching, causing shivers.
You
do not think you will ever get enough of her if you cannot have her. You
believe she has no idea this is true, but then you never shared with her that
you wanted her at the same time Jim did.
In
fact, she thinks you did not. She has said it before, when she was angry with
you. "You never wanted me" standing in for things she will not say.
Like
that she loves you. Even though she does. You feel it whenever you touch her.
And
the guilt she had, after Jim was gone, has disappeared. It should bother you
that she feels no guilt over betraying Nyota, but since you are in this venture
together, you do not dwell on it.
You
finish, pushing into her, moaning loudly, pulling her to her side as you roll
off her. You reach over her, for the water she has poured into your friend's
glass. Does she realize what a monumental gift she has given you?
You
watch her face as you take a sip. You think she fully realizes what she's given
you.
Then
she frowns, and you sense her confusion, rising through her lovely skin into
yours. "Has something changed?" Immediately, regret colors
everything.
"No."
You put the glass down and tangle your fingers in her hair, forcing her to look
at you. "No, do not regret asking."
She
cocks her head, studying you the way you imagine she would an experiment. You
share that: science. You would have many things to talk about if she were your
mate.
You
kiss her softly. "Yes, yes something has changed."
She
frowns. She is not unhappy—that you would feel clearly. But whatever emotion
she is feeling is much harder to quantify. Perhaps with a meld?
You
reach for her face, but she pulls away.
"No?"
you ask, surprised.
"No."
Suddenly she is sliding off the bed, away from you, landing half on the floor.
"This is what it is."
You
have said that to her. Numerous times. Usually to also make clear what it is
not.
You
slip from the bed, following her, reaching out, your hand open.
"Christine? Do you not want this?"
She
squints, frowning, and does not take your hand. "You're with her. You're with her."
"At
this moment, I am with you."
"Yes,
and moments are all we have." She shakes her head and gets quickly to her
feet, going into the guest bathroom and shutting the door.
You
hear the lock engage, then the sound of the shower.
Your
soap is in her bathroom. She has left you that. She expects you to leave. She
does not want to talk. This surprises you more than anything the two of you
have done in this year of excess and betrayal.
You
get up and take a shower, feeling forlorn even if you normally do not linger in
her bed. Now, when you want to, she is not interested.
Perhaps
she never has been?
But
no. You feel everything. When you leave her, you slide your hand over her body.
A possessive touch but also informative. You know if your departure makes her
sad or angry or just relieved because she is tired and would rather be sleeping
than pleasuring you.
And
no matter what, through all those emotions, you can always feel her love.
You
consider, as you dress, breaking into the guest bathroom. The lock is
rudimentary and you figured out how to do it when you were a child.
But
if she wanted to shower with you, she would be in her bathroom. Although you
rarely shower together anymore.
Has
she grown tired of you? The love notwithstanding? Or just tired of the
situation?
You
stand at the door and knock gently. The water is no longer going and she says,
"Goodbye."
You
wait, to see if she will open the door.
She
does not.
"Goodbye,"
you say, then you leave your haven and head home.
Nyota
She
sits across from Spock, the dinner table the only thing that's keeping her from
launching herself at him. Does he think she doesn't know where he goes? She
followed him from Command this time. Straight to Christine's—well,
Jim's—apartment. He was so focused on where he was going he never bothered to
look back.
She
waited for him to come out. His look was...pensive. Not guilty. Not furtive. He
left that building like any other visitor.
Not
like the cheater he is.
She
realizes he's said something and says, "What?" in a sharper way than
she means to.
"I
merely asked how your day was."
She
smiles, and knows it's a smile he'd do well to mind. She thinks he has no idea
how dangerous the mood she's in is. "It was okay."
His
eyebrow goes up.
"But
then I wasn't having sex with my other lover. Maybe I'd have had a better day
if I was."
He
sits very still, not looking away. Will he grow a pair of balls now? Finally?
She's hinted around for weeks, ever since a friend mentioned seeing him in
Christine's building.
Her
best fucking friend.
She's
been hinting around, and he's avoided discussing this. But now, she's tired of
feints and shots across the bow. She wants to have this out.
But
she also wants to win. She won him once over Christine, and she'll do it again.
So she lightens her tone, softens her voice and her eyes and even her stance.
Melting toward him the way he used to say reminded him of a cat.
"When
will you stop punishing me for Risa, Spock?"
Because
that's what this is about. She made him lose Jim—or that's what he's never been
willing to say. She thinks he believes her too stupid to figure it out on her
own.
But
she's not stupid. She's never been stupid. You don't serve as long as she did
under Jim Kirk if you're stupid.
Jim.
It's how she thinks of him even if she only got to call him that once she was
with his best friend. She thinks, after everything she did, everywhere she
followed him, all the risks she took for him, that she should have been able to
call him that for her own sake. Not because it was awkward to have his bud's
girlfriend calling him "Sir" or "Captain" when they all got
together.
But
no.
She's
not going to talk about that, though. It would be counterproductive if keeping
Spock is on her to-do list, and it is, and she's smart enough to know how to
manage him.
She's
not sure when he and Christine started, but she wants them to finish before her
next birthday.
Or
she'll leave. She's promised herself she'll leave.
"Nyota,
I am not sure what—"
She
holds up her hand, in the way that he understands after nearly two years with
her means, "No. Stop." Shut the fuck up, even if she only thinks it,
never says it. People assume a lot about her. Because she knows how to act, how
to behave, how to be good and nice and pleasing. But that doesn't mean inside
she's any of that.
She
almost would rather have this conversation with her friend. Up on the gorgeous
balcony Jim picked the apartment for. Maybe with a nice big shove and
Christine's scream growing more and more distant as she fell.
Only
she'll never do that. Because there might be someone underneath that would get
hurt. Or have to see that. She's thoughtful.
Unlike
some.
"I
know you're sleeping with her. I don't care why. I don't want to know how long it's
been going on. I just want you to choose. You can have me or you can have her.
But you can't have us both."
For
a moment, he looks as if he's still going to protest, to pretend to innocence,
but then something drops and she realizes it's the lie they've been living.
In
his eyes, she sees a myriad of emotions. Guilt, for one. But also...resentment?
He fucking resents her? How the hell does he get off resenting her?
"What?
Say what you're thinking, Spock. After so long lying, I'd think that'd be welcome."
She
sees true anger in his eyes. This is more emotion than she's witnessed since
Jim died. Before she knew he was with Christine, she thought he was cutting off
all his feelings. Now she wonders if he's burying them along with his dick in
Christine's body.
"Very
well." He leans forward. "You want me to choose?"
She
nods.
"She
will not make me choose."
It
hurts. God, it hurts, to hear him talk about Christine, even if he doesn't say
her name. But it has to hurt, because this is horrible what he's doing to
her—what they're both doing to her. "Fine, choose her." She could get
up and stalk off if she wanted to end this right now.
She
thinks by the look in his eyes, he'd like her to. To spare him the trouble and
guilt of being the one to pull the "It's over" trigger.
But
it's not over. It's never going to be over. Everyone knows it's forever with
Vulcans. This cannot be fucking over. Not when she won. When she finally won.
Even
if she lost Jim. How the hell did Christine get him? Christine left the
ship—left him—twice. While she stayed, Christine left. And Christine ends up
with Jim?
And
Nyota ended up with Spock. A prize, too. She's always been in love with both of
them.
And
now Christine doesn't get to have them both. That's not how this story ends.
"Do
you love her?" she asks, putting as much hurt in her voice as she can,
making it waver just so. She's a singer and a bit of an actress. And she knows
everything there is to know about communicating. She's going to have to keep
him off balance.
Guilt
is the only way to do that with him. Push him, and he runs. Just ask his father
how well demands go.
He
meets her eyes, and she reads uncertainty in his. He's not sure if he's in love
with Christine.
Which
means he's not sure he isn't. She wasn't expecting that.
"Spock,
I know you were hurting after Jim. I know I wasn't the right person to talk to
about it." Even though she should have been. Their vacation had been
planned for months. She and Spock had both assumed Jim would not want to see
Harriman taking command.
They
were wrong. He asked Spock, who had to say they had plans. He had to turn his
friend down and then Jim was lost. And she's paid for that ever since.
Why
doesn't Spock have to pay? He gets to fuck her former best friend and come home
as if everything is all right?
"I
understand she must have been hurting, too." Not that she reached out to
Christine very hard. They held each other at the memorial, but she was
concentrating on Spock. On helping him get ships to go out and search when he
needed them—although she wonders now if Christine didn't do more on that front
than she did. Christine has more access, more friends high up.
Christine
didn't homestead on one ship, under one captain.
Christine,
goddamned her soul, has a career, not a home. Jim and the crew and the ship
were Nyota's home. And now the prodigal sister is
taking it all away.
"I
want to make this better between us." She reaches for his hand and is
gratified when he doesn't pull away, but then realizes he may just want to read
her emotional state. So she stops just before they touch. If he wants to use
her, let him do the reaching.
Their
eyes meet; his are softer, she thinks, than hers.
"Do
you want to leave me?" she asks, the tone the half husky, half little girl
one that men respond best to. The one that says, "Protect me and I'll show
you heaven in my bed."
But
some other woman is showing him that. Or at least oblivion, which may be what
he prefers right now.
"Spock?"
She
sees resolve in his eyes for a moment, then a glimmer of uncertainty. The order
is confusing. Most people let resolve overcome uncertainty.
Is
he unsure of Christine's feelings for him? That would be too rich.
But
she'll milk it. "I love you. I know we can get past this."
"Can
we?" He seems to be studying her, then reaches out and takes her hand,
holding it gently. What he feels from her seems to surprise him. "You
think we can."
She's
sending him as much love as she can. She's sending him resolve. She's thinking
of every happy thing she can at this moment. The first time they made love in
her apartment on a lazy winter day when the fog had rolled in. The way he'd
smiled—a real smile—when he asked her to marry him on Risa.
All
the times on the bridge, when he made her feel safe.
The
way she wants to protect him. To love and cherish and take care of him, the way
he should be cared for.
What
can Christine offer him that she can't? She lets him feel that, too. Confusion.
Why would he ever choose Christine over her?
She
lets go of his hand and gets up, slipping into his lap and kissing him softly.
"I know we can, if we both want to. Years down the road, we'll look back
on this and ask, 'Christine who?'"
She
feels him tense. That last part might have been too much. But then he's pushing
his forehead against her shoulders. He isn't apologizing. She'll have to wait
for that. But he's surrendering, she thinks, to the possibility that the couple
who will endure is the two of them, not he and Christine.
And
for now, that's enough.
Christine
I
sit in the exam room of a special section of Starfleet Medical where you go
after missions that are slightly less regulation than others, and stare down
where the tiny scratch across my shin was before I regenerated the skin. The
scratch that let the sickness in. I know what the diagnosis is before the
doctor comes in, his eyes looking everywhere but me, but his
reticence—discomfort, even—confirms it. "Silestyan?"
He
nods and seems grateful he doesn't have to deliver the diagnosis.
He
won't have to deliver the prognosis, either. I know, you see. I know because
I've diagnosed it in the few who've ever come down with it.
They
were on my team. On a planet inside the neutral zone. Where we technically were
not supposed to be. It was a volunteer-only mission. But the people needed
help, and the Romulans showed no inclination to assist them.
Silestyan virus was endemic on the planet. Many of
the people had resistance to it from exposure as children to Romulans. Humans
were not so lucky. And with it not being a sickness that shows up in Federation
space, our researchers don't spend time finding a cure.
Especially
when it's only found on worlds that Starfleet isn't going to own up to having
had personnel on.
They
can't heal us. The most they can do is freeze us until a cure is found.
I
laugh and the doctor looks at me with concern.
"I
won," I tell him, knowing he won't understand. But I've known I won since
that day Spock wanted to meld. I was shocked—and not entirely happy with the
idea of melding with him when he's with her—and I ran from it and from him. But
I've won.
And
now I won't live to enjoy it. Or rather, I won't be awake to enjoy it.
"You
need to get into cryo as soon as possible,
Commander."
"Doctor."
This time, for this conversation, I want to be Doctor Chapel.
"Of
course, Doctor." He sighs. "I wish..."
"Yeah,
I wish, too. I have friends already in cryo." It
took longer to manifest in me. Not sure why, maybe the immune system boosters
some of us were trying out? Who knows? For whatever reason, I thought I'd been
spared.
Fate
has a way of laughing at me that you'd think I'd be used to by now.
I
touch the doctor's shoulder as he starts to walk out, to get the forms started
for cryo. "This is all very sensitive."
Even now I keep the secrets; this many years in ops, I can't stop.
"I'm
cleared for you ops types. I don't want to know where you got this, but
unfortunately I have a pretty good idea. But don't worry: I'm good at keeping
my mouth shut." Then he puts his hand on my shoulder. "I am sorry,
Chapel."
"Well,
who knows? Maybe I'll get to see the future?" I smile, and he looks as if
he thinks I'm brave, but really I'm just being me. I gave up on happy endings a
long time ago. Now I settle for balls and bluster.
I
comm Spock without thinking where he might be. It doesn't matter anymore. He
told me the last time he was with me, just before I shipped out and picked up
this nasty bug, that she knows about us, but she wants to keep him anyway. This
is a good thing. He won't be alone.
He
answers immediately. "Are you all right?"
He
was the one who sensed something amiss with my system. When he touched me the
last time we made love—and I can't just call it fucking anymore. He made love
to me, and as he ran his hands over and down, he stopped, where the little
scratch had been and asked me if I'd had myself checked out.
A
regular scanner didn't find it, or I'd have found it myself. And I'd been
checked at the same time as my teammates. The boosters apparently masked the
virus's signature. Irony.
Or
fate, again, laughing uproariously at me.
"Christine?"
I can hear the concern in his voice. I know I can't talk about this on an open
channel.
"I'm
not all right. Can we speak face to face?"
"Yes."
"I'm
at Medical. Come and walk me home." It's indulgent and stupid. But we're old
shipmates. There's nothing wrong with old shipmates meeting up in the hall and
leaving together. "I'll be at the entrance."
"I
am on my way." The comm line goes dead and I laugh, because he's not being
rude, he's just on his way.
I
sit as I wait for him. I sit and ponder cryo sleep.
Some people dream. Some people have nightmares. Some simply experience a
dreamless, timeless peace after the initial phase-in period. I know all this
because I worked on a cryo project after I left the
ship after V'ger. It was where I met Cartwright. He was especially interested
in it for uses during an emergency, especially when we had wounded we could
evacuate but not treat.
Cartwright,
who's rotting in Rura Penthe.
I miss him so. He's a traitor, but he was good to me, the best mentor I ever
had. I refused to disavow his impact on my life and for a few months after Khitomer, my life was hell. But then things settled down,
and life moved on as it does.
I
see Spock coming quite quickly down the hall, not running exactly, but
hurrying. He looks like he might if it were Jim who asked him to come. If it
were Jim who wasn't all right.
I
think in some ways I've merged with Jim in Spock's mind. It's not just me he's
fucking. Although maybe I'm being unfair to him. Because it does seem that he
has feelings that are just for me.
I
get up and head to the door, meeting him there, and he puts his hand on my
elbow, steering me out. Normally I'd think it was to read me, but we're both in
uniform. He can read nothing through this much fabric. He just...he just wants
to touch me. In public. Where anyone could see.
"Christine?"
"Not
here. At my place." Which is swept regularly for bugs. Because we see so
much in ops and this keeps information safe. I've wondered a time or two if the
people sweeping for surveillance also place some—do they watch us? Have they
seen Spock and I, joined together, on the couch, in the shower, on the floor by
the door because we couldn't wait to get to the bedroom?
He
palms open the door to the building but stops and looks back.
"Is
she there?" He's told me she followed him. Not that it matters now.
"I
do not believe so."
When
we reach my apartment, he palms that open, too, and again, his hand is on my
elbow. So solicitous.
Can
it be that he loves me?
Fate
is once again spitting on me if that's true.
I
pull him into the living room, sit next to him on the couch, and say, " Silestyan virus. Have you heard of it?"
His
face freezes and his eyes seek mine. There's hopelessness in his. "Where
could you have—" But he stops because of course he knows where I could
have gotten it. Or at least how. A relief mission we weren't supposed to do but
did anyway.
"There's
no cure, Spock. Not here anyway. The Romulans have one, but we can't ask them,
obviously."
"I
have a contact. I trust him deeply."
"Is
he high up?"
"Moderately
so."
"Then
you can't ask him. They can't even suspect where we were." Because
Starfleet might send others. The planet has a great deal of strategic minerals,
and the people would be happy to share them with the Federation in exchange for
protection. They're close enough to the border of the neutral zone that their
planet could go either way, and they're tired of Romulan predations on their
bounty with little but neglect otherwise.
"Christine,
I assure you my associate can be trusted." He's touching my neck as he
talks, playing with my hair in a way that I think brings him comfort. "I
can help you. Possibly cure you."
I
smile, and I know it's a smile of amazement. He's passionate about this. I
should, by now, be a millstone around his neck. The mistress he buried his pain
in, not someone he wants to save. "I love that you want to. But you
can't." I put my forehead to his, press gently, and whisper, "The
needs of the many..."
I
hear his sigh of defeat. "I love you," he says, and it hangs out
there, but then he pulls away and tilts my chin up and waits until I meet his
eyes to say, "Christine, I love
you."
"I
love you, too. But we don't have a future. You need to go home to Nyota. You
need to build a life with her." And I know she'll welcome him back.
"Choose her before it's announced that I'm 'lost.'" I nuzzle in
because I see the word hits too hard. Lost like Jim. Lost like Scotty. One more
person to lose with no body.
"Lost,"
he echoes, his voice forlorn.
"It's
how it has to be. Only presumed dead so that maybe someday I can come
back." I know he knows this. I just have to say it. For my own sake.
"Christine,
do not cry."
Shit.
Am I crying? I don't let him see me cry. But now I am and maybe it doesn't
matter anymore. "I don't want to go to sleep. I could have you, couldn't
I?"
He
nods, pressing against me.
And
we sit still. I know how this will go. Someone pretending to be me will
requisition a ship that will crash in a way leaving only fragments. The person
piloting will make their way to some other, more shadowy part, of Starfleet
when this is over.
I
will never be in the ship; I'll be at a cryo center
under a name that's not mine.
"Christine
Chapel will cease to exist," I murmur. "But a friend of mine runs the
cryo center the others were sent to. It's in
Berkeley."
"I
know the one." He nods against me, holding me tightly. "I will find
you once I have the cure."
I
can see he won't let this go, and I know better than to push him—but there are
other ways to get him to do what I want. "Spock, if they think you have
compromised anything, I might disappear." I don't mean they'd kill me, but
they would move me. I'd as good as vanish.
I
can tell by his expression that he can feel that I believe it.
"I
will be circumspect."
I
accept his word. There's more he needs to hear. "You have to choose Nyota
before anything's announced. She has to think she's beaten me, not won you by
default." It's the side of her she thinks I don't understand. But it's my
job to understand what makes people tick. I've always known the real Nyota
Uhura is very far from the sweet and soft facade she puts on.
"Why
do you want me with her?"
"Because
if I can't have you, she should. Because she was my best friend and I owe it to
her. Because I can't bear to think of you alone. All of the above,
really."
He
strokes my cheek, and his fingers linger over the meld points.
"Spock,
don't. I can't bear it. And I don't think you'll be able to, either."
"I
do not meld with her." He looks lost. "I will not meld with
her."
It's
the only thing he can give me. But I'll take it.
"You
can never tell anyone what's really happened to me. I'm not supposed to say
goodbye to anyone. It has to look real." I pull him to me, nuzzling his
neck. "But there was no way I wouldn't tell you." I say that at full
voice, so if there are people watching us, they'll know I knew it when I said
it. That I trust this man, and they can, too.
He
pulls me onto him, straddling him, and we kiss for a long time, in a way I
don't remember us doing before. The kisses are almost playful, even in the
desperation that surrounds all these last touches.
"I
love you, Spock." I trace the tips of his ears, and he closes his eyes.
"Do
you love me more than Jim?" He opens his eyes and seems to want to watch
whatever thought processes I'm letting show on my face.
"I
was in love with you longer."
It's
not an answer to the question he's asked, but it's the only one I can give him.
Did I love Jim? Absolutely. Did I love him more than I do Spock? No. But at
this point, who cares?
And
if I tell Spock I do love him more, then he might not stay with Nyota. I know
him, after all. I know he wallows. Let him plunge his pain into her body this
time.
I'll
be unavailable. Forever, possibly.
"If
the Federation or Starfleet do not find a cure, I will." As I open my
mouth to protest, he covers it with his hand. "No. I will be careful. I
will not compromise anyone. But I will find it."
"You
should let me go. That would be the smartest thing. Nyota loves you, and I
think you love her. You loved her before you loved me."
He
looks as if he is weighing whether to tell me something.
"What?
What is it?"
But
then he shakes his head. He looks away as he murmurs, "You are no doubt
wise."
"Just
don't go back to her right this minute." I begin to pull off his clothing,
and he does the same for me, and then I rise up and settle down onto
him...there. "I'll miss this," I murmur, even if it's probably not
true. If I'm lucky, I'll be one of the non-dreamers, not missing anything.
Although dreaming of this moment would be nice: a love that lasts forever.
He
holds me more tightly than usual, kisses me more, bringing me orgasm after
orgasm, enough to last a lifetime.
We
eventually move to the bed and when, finally sated, he lets us rest, I ask
softly, "Can I ask you something stupid?"
He
looks over, his eyes tender, his touch on my lips so very gentle. "I would
have left her. I would have chosen you."
"Thank
you." I don't know if it's a lie, but I don't think he's smart enough
emotionally to know to do that, or maybe I just think he's too Vulcan to lower
himself to lie.
Then
again, he's going back to a woman he would have left for me. So maybe he's
human enough to say whatever I need to hear, whatever will make this bearable
for both of us.
When
we finally leave the bed, it's late. We shower together and he reaches for my
soap, as if he doesn't care how much that would hurt her.
I
stop him and make him use his soap, the way he needs to. She's smart enough to
see a reconciliation that comes with a slap like that for what it is: the
crossed fingers of a child promising something he doesn't really mean.
She
can't know that. Not if he's to have some kind of love in his life. And I want
that for him. And for her, I guess. She was my friend, once.
This
is the least—and the most—I can do for her.
"Be
careful with the Romulans. They can't be trusted," I whisper as I hold him
tightly as he gets ready to walk out of my place for the last time. Tomorrow
morning I'll need to get things in order without looking like that's what I'm
doing. Ops will have a special safety deposit bin for the things that really
matter to me—but I can't take many of them or it won't look real. Everything
else will be packed up and put in storage—or at least I think it will.
"I
have faith in the Romulan I am working with," he says, and I can see in
his eyes that this faith will keep him going far more than any love for Ny
will.
And
that makes me happy. God help me, that makes me so very happy.
Spock
You
sit at your terminal, staring at the weekly all-hands bulletin from Starfleet.
"Senior Emergency Operations Officer Lost in Shuttle Explosion" is one
of the headlines. Her name is in the article. You imagine she has worked with
many officers at this point. Officers will click the link to the full article
and mourn for a moment, or maybe longer, the loss of a fine member of the
Fleet.
You
think you should be able to sense when she goes into the cryo
chamber. You may not have melded, but you did share consciousness, so many
years ago now. You should be able to feel the lack of her, the same way you
still get pings when Leonard is sick or hurt after placing your katra with him.
But
you have felt nothing different.
You
burn for her. Not literally, although your emotions are chaotic enough for this
to be the Pon Farr. You want to go and find her and
take her to Pardek and say, "Heal her, as a
gesture of good faith." But you know you can't. For so many reasons.
"I'm
home." Nyota's tone is light. She is happy
because she has won, and you understand that Christine knew her far better than
you do. Perhaps, in time, you will understand what drives her the way your
lover did.
The
way the woman you love did.
You
know you should close the article, but you do not.
"What
are you doing?" She's at the door.
"I
am doing nothing." Nothing to help Christine. Nothing to stop this process
of losing her to a disease, to a cure that is nothing but an inadequate
solution.
"Well,
someone's grumpy." She comes over, puts her arms around you, and you know
she's reading the bulletin over your shoulder. "Oh, God. Spock."
There
is actual pain in her voice, and you feel shock and grief and just the faintest
trace of relief from where her arm is touching your neck. "Not another of
us."
And
you realize that is the pain she feels. Not that it is Christine, but that it
is one of the crew. You want to push her off you, but instead you pull her
around, bury your head in her neck, and murmur, "Yes, too many of
us."
You
feel triumph surging from her at your choice of words. You knew, that if
Christine was right about this woman you are going to marry, you would. But you
hoped for more. You hoped she would feel more for her friend. Or for you?
"Do
you want some time alone?" She is giving you that, her voice generous, her
kiss sweet. She is giving you time to mourn your former mistress.
She
has no idea you started mourning Christine from the moment she told you she had
contracted Silestyan.
"I
believe I will go for a walk."
She
hugs you tightly and then gets up. "I love you."
"And
I you." It is how you say it now. It is easier to say it that way. It is
not a lie. You do love her—have always, as a crewmate, as a lovely friend. But
you are not in love with her.
Perhaps,
though. In time. You will be.
You
leave the apartment, walking in no particular direction, and it takes you
longer than it should to realize someone is following you. You are about to
turn, when you hear a muttered, "Don't," and then a man is passing
you, slipping as he does it, thrusting something in your hand. "They
changed the location," he mutters, his head down and then says,
"Sorry, clumsy of me," much more loudly and hurries off.
You
crumple the paper in your grip and do not change the tempo of your steps, or
the expression on your face. You let yourself appear to be troubled and deep in
thought. You walk all the way to the Vulcan embassy, are waved in, and head for
the chamber you know to be free of eavesdropping—human anyway.
You
keep your head and body over your hands, mantling the small scrap of paper like
a hawk over a kill so any cameras that are in this room won't see what you are
looking at.
All
it says is, "Marina Talbot" and "CCDOax."
You
walk out, to the woman who serves as a concierge and general assistant, and ask
softly, "May I use your terminal?"
"Of
course, Spock." She signs off, and gives you space, heading for the
refreshment area, and you quickly sign in and search cryo
centers and enter a disease only Vulcans contract, for which cryo is often the best option since researchers are close
to a cure.
There
are a large number of Vulcan centers you need to scroll past but then you see
the list of known centers on Earth and nearby Federation worlds. You realize
she could be at a black site, but believe in this case, Starfleet has no reason
not to just hide her in plain sight.
Cryo-Center
Deluxe Oaxaca gets your attention. You elect not to select it, but you do
select several others, all on Vulcan.
By
the time the assistant gets back, you have also searched other treatment
options and katra ceremonies. You sign out, clearing
the system of your search history, but if anyone is watching traffic, which you
doubt, they will see only the most normal—if disagreeable—of queries.
"Is
my mother in?"
"No,
she and the ambassador have gone out." She looks as if she does not understand
why you would not comm first to ascertain their presence.
"I
was in the area. I thought I would check. Thank you for the use of your
terminal."
"Of
course. Peace and long life, Spock."
"And
to you."
You
leave the embassy and walk for a long time, then you go into a market, buy Nyota's favorite color roses, and take them home to her.
She
cries when she sees them, and says, "Oh, Spock," as she pulls you in.
You feel more grief than pleasure and she murmurs, "She was my best
friend, before..."
"I
know." It is all you can say. You know you have come between them.
"I
miss her." There is truth to the statement; she is not lying for your
benefit.
And
in the sadness you feel for her—real sadness this time, for her friend, you
find some peace.
It
is the reason you will stay with her. Because there is so much good in her. You
should have been satisfied with that. You should have stayed true to
her—perhaps Christine would have made different choices on missions and not
contracted a disease.
But
no. You do not know that there is any causal nature of your relationship and
her sickness. She was probably chosen because she was the best qualified to
lead such a mission.
"I'm
going to put these in water. Thank you, Spock." And then she is gone and
you are left, the piece of paper still in the pocket of your robe.
Nyota
has turned on the fireplace, and you walk to it and drop the paper in.
It
burns to nothing as you watch.
Nyota
She
sits next to Spock at the memorial for Christine and tries to square her
feelings. There is a deep well of grief but it is covered over, as if by a net,
of resentment—even hatred.
This
woman that she called her friend is dead, and that makes her sad. But this
woman that she called her friend fucked her fiance
and that enrages her.
"Such
a loss," someone says as they sit behind her. "She was going to make
captain—I just know it. I worked with her on an emergency. Such strong moral
fiber."
This
is news to her and it irritates her that no one is looking at her and thinking
Starfleet should make her captain. She wants to turn around and ask if strong
moral fiber includes fucking someone else's man, but of course she doesn't.
Christine
is now Saint Christine, and there's nothing she can do about that without
embarrassing Spock and herself, too.
Janice
sits next to her, Sulu following her in. They hug and she wishes she'd told Jan
before this happened what Christine had done to her. If she tells her now, it's
only her words against the memory of Christine. It won't work. She's a master
of framing a message in a way people will receive, and she knows she needs to
swallow the bitterness and anger and just pretend to be what she's not: the
dead woman's closest friend.
Or
one of them.
"She
followed Jim," Janice says.
She
wants to look at her like she's fucking nuts. Christine didn't follow him. She
barely waited for him to be gone before taking up with someone new—someone who
was taken. But she keeps her eyes down, as if the emotion is too much, and
murmurs, "She did."
She
wants to vomit. More and more as fellow crew come in, Pavel and Leonard—but no
Scotty.
He
was lost, on his way to retirement. This is how it will be now. Less and less
of them remaining.
She
glances at Spock. She loves him in a way she never loved Scotty. And things are
better now with Spock. She doesn't feel as if Christine lives between them
anymore. She doesn't have to be hard and unpleasant, can fall back into the
role she prefers. Doting fiance, sweet-tempered
woman, consummate professional who still has a life outside of Starfleet.
The
CINC gets up. The fucking CINC? The
crowd quiets as he looks out at them, then gestures toward the picture of
Christine that is on the projection screens. "Commander Christine Chapel
saved my life. I imagine there are many of us—many more beyond these walls—who
can say the same thing."
She
stops herself from rolling her eyes. This is Christine's day. Her last day. Let her be canonized.
Worshipped, even, as some goddess of mercy and comfort. She knew the real
woman, and the picture was far more complex and far less complimentary.
But
she leans into Janice, as if this hurts, as if she is feeling too much, and
Janice lean backs, murmuring, "I miss her."
"I
miss her, too," she says.
Lying,
after all, is recommended at a memorial. She wants to tune out the speakers and
focus on the wedding that she's planning. But that might leave her exposed—mute
and dull when she should be laughing at a wry story or crying at the
selflessness of her fiance's lover. So she pays
attention and does what she does best.
Puts
on a mask and acts out the part. Until it's over, the ceremony, and then the
reception, and then the trip to the bar with just the crew.
She
gets home and kisses Spock gently, then watches him walk into his study and
close the door, clearly saddened.
And
then she goes into their bedroom, takes off the black dress, and throws it into
the recycler. She never wants to see that garment again.
Part 2: I Don't Like My Mind Right Now
Spock
You
are not usually given to fantasy, but you indulge yourself and think of
Christine as you sit in this auditorium, listening to speakers that offer
nothing you do not already know. But Starfleet insists officers attend this
training yearly and so you are here.
The
seat next to you is empty. You saved it for Nyota as she asked you to, but she
has yet to make an appearance. You close your eyes, imagining how she will
smell when she comes in, the faint whiff of fragrance that is not her perfume,
but a man's cologne.
She
thinks she is hiding this affair from you. You never meld and you have said
nothing to indicate you suspect her. You and she have lived together in what
you thought was harmony. Six years of that. But something changed with her last
assignment.
You
could easily discover his name if you wished. You find you do not care enough
to trouble yourself. She is not denying you sex—in fact, the guilt that washes
from her skin when you touch her makes her particularly generous with some
forms of intimacy.
And
you have never stopped thinking of Christine. Although you try not to do it
when you are making love to your wife. So maybe it is fair that she is finally
paying you back for your indiscretion.
Marina Talbot.
Oaxaca.
It is a meditation mantra now. Who Christine is. Where she is. Sleeping.
Dreaming of you, perhaps? Or of Jim or Roger. You would prefer she not dream at
all than be living some fantasy of other men. It is primitive and it concerns
you because eventually the Pon Farr will come upon
you. And you are not sure if your body, when it is operating on primitive
emotion alone, will want to go to Oaxaca and wake up your mistress or...make due with the woman you married.
The
woman who is slipping into the seat next to you. "Did they miss me?"
she asks, so low that only a Vulcan could hear her.
You
lean in, your mouth to her ear. "I signed you in." There is no trace
of cologne. You let an eyebrow rise as you ponder this. "Where were
you?"
"Crisis
counseling. Saavik—I'll tell you later. Everything's fine now."
And
this is one of the reasons you have never entertained leaving her. That, if you
are fair to her, you are not just making due but are actually happy. The part
of you that is not primitive, that is rational and capable of weighing positive
to negative, loves her. You appreciate the deep affection she has for the woman
you consider your daughter, and the easy rapport she has with your mother. Even
your father seems less stiff with her around.
Although
it took time. Your father preferred Christine and made every attempt to steer
you her way. As usual, you resisted anything he wanted you to do and lost her
because while you were rebelling, she went to Jim.
You
will never tell your father that, of course. He need never know how right he
was.
It
occurs to you that you misjudged Nyota. You were so sure she was with her lover
when she was not. Is it over? Has she grown tired of this man—or has her guilt
made her back away?
But
then the door opens again, and a man passes your aisle seat, the cologne all too
familiar. He is at least a decade her junior. As he sits, he looks around, his
gaze coming to you and he seems to blanche.
You
do not look away. You want him to see that you know—that you do not appreciate
the liberties he is taking with your wife.
You
realize you are clenching your fists and slowly open them. Perhaps the Pon Farr will not be a problem at all. This reaction to
your wife's lover is anything but rational. In fact, you want to pull him
apart. Slowly.
You
force yourself to look away, focus on the speaker, on the useless information
coming out of his mouth.
You
hear Nyota breathe, "Are you all right, Spock?"
You
turn, raise an eyebrow in the most playful manner that you can, and nod
slightly.
She
smiles, but it is an uncertain expression. Then her eyes dart to the side—to
her lover—and you lean in and, in the lowest voice you think she will hear,
say, "I know. It is only fair, I suppose. I did it to you, after
all."
She
tenses but meets your eyes as you ease away. She is obviously confused by the
dichotomy of the way your voice sounded and the easy expression you are giving
her. But she will not back down—she never backs down. And you think that is one
of the things you admire most about her.
"Later,"
she mouths, and you nod just enough to indicate you agree. Then you go back to
thinking of other things.
Of
other people.
Of
one other person.
Marina Talbot. Oaxaca.
Nyota
She
glances over at William. He doesn't look her way, not once, not since he and
Spock had their "whatever that was" stare down.
Only,
she knows what it was. Spock just told her what it was.
She
is screwing this young—well, younger—man who admires her and thinks she's
beautiful, and her husband is fully aware of it.
And
he's not happy.
And
just maybe, he also doesn't care.
This
is the problem with Vulcans. So much is rooted in possession. She's his but is
he hers? That's what has always troubled her. It's what, if she's honest with
herself, allowed her to let William in.
She
has never, ever cheated on someone she loved. And now she does it with
impunity.
But
not with a light heart. She wasn't lying to Spock about crisis management with
Saavik. But afterwards, she stopped in at the chapel, where she goes often and
always has.
She
thinks he has no idea how much time over the years she's spent in chapels. God
is not something they talk about, primarily because he can dissect anything
into being illogical, and she doesn't want her faith to be examined under a
microscope. It's like Jim's instincts at command were: something that makes no
sense logically but works nonetheless.
As
she sat in the pew, staring at her favorite stained glass window, she saw one
of the chaplains come out from the office areas. Do they have an alert when
someone comes into the place? They always seem to come out when she walks in,
an unobtrusive presence if not needing, going back into the office and leaving
her in peace.
But
this time she looks up and gives the man a wavering smile—the kind she's fully
aware says: "I need help."
He
comes over and sits next to her. "That's my favorite window, too." He
gestures at the one she's been staring at.
"It's
been here as long as I have. Even survived the whale probe."
He
laughs softly. "Yes, it did." They sit in silence for a moment, then
he says, "If you don't need company, I'll leave you alone."
"I
need advice—or maybe just an ear." She turns to look at him. "I need
to know what to do—what's right."
He
studies her. "It's been my experience that many times, when people say
that, they know exactly what's right. And it's generally not what they're
doing."
"That's
true, isn't it?" Sighing, she turns to the window. "I'm betraying
someone I love. But the thing is, he did it first."
"I
see."
"With
a friend of mine. Who I hate—hated. I can't hate her anymore, can I? Because
I'm just like her." Only William isn't married. She's not stealing him
from anyone. But she's taken. So that's worse.
Shit,
it's so much worse. Christine was with Spock before she was married to him. She
was with William despite being married.
"I
love my husband."
"Do
you like him?"
She
shrugs, unsure where he's going with the question.
"If
I understand what you're saying, you're being unfaithful to your husband."
"Yes,"
she whispers so softly he can choose to ignore it.
"Sometimes,
when we crave intimacy, it isn't the sexual kind. How much do you and your
husband have in common?"
"Not
that much." William makes her laugh. William makes her feel...smart.
"But he's kind to me. And I love his family. I have a family because of
him. My parents died when I was young, and I have no siblings."
"So
you would lose far more than a husband if he were to find out."
"Yes."
And she thinks William won't last. He's enamored now, but he's still young
enough to have a family if he marries someone his own age. "I want to keep
what I have."
That
sums up so much of her life. And why she hangs on when others move on. Because
she had so little growing up that was hers, everything that does belong to her
takes on such significance and value.
"It's
wrong to cheat." She sighs. There. She's said it. It wasn't wrong, when it
started, when she was lonely and Spock seemed particularly distant—and absent.
Away on one diplomatic mission after another. She might as well have been
single.
But
he's more engaged now. Although maybe that's just the Pon
Farr finally coming on.
Whatever
his reason, he's present. And she needs to be, too.
She
gives the chaplain a grateful smile. "Thank you."
"You
did all the heavy lifting."
"But
you spotted me." She grins and he does too, and she wonders who this man
is who listens with such tranquil support. She holds out her hand. "I'm
Nyota."
"Carl."
He takes her hand and squeezes it gently before letting it go. "I'm
married, too. The road with another is wonderful—except when it's not. But if
it were easy, it wouldn't be worth having."
"Yes."
She waits until he is gone, then pulls out her comm unit.
William
should be in the auditorium, but he's probably not. He's probably hanging back
since she did, too. Hoping they can find time to be together.
She's
the only one in the chapel, so she comms him. He picks up immediately.
"I
can't do this anymore," she whispers.
There's
long silence and then he says, "Okay."
And
that's that. It's over. No fuss, no muss. She feels like an idiot.
But
then a text message comes in. Just tell
me why.
She
knew it was wrong to feel better that he did care
that she broke up with him, but she did feel better. She typed out: Because I love my husband.
She
pulls out the comm unit now, brings up the texts, letting them sit there, just
the two, and hands it to Spock.
He
reads it and goes very still. The way only a Vulcan feeling something very
strongly does. And then he turns to her, his eyes softer than she's seen in
years.
He
mouths, "I love you, too." In the middle of an auditorium. Granted,
they're in the back and the lights are dimmed. But still, such a declaration.
She smiles, and feels tears well, and wants to take him and go home and make
love the way they haven't in such a long time.
They've
just had sex. She knew it and now she knows he knew it, too.
To
her surprise, he takes her by the hand long enough to get her rising, to follow
him, to take her elbow and almost push her up the stairs. They aren't
sneaking—anyone can see them leave—but they are sneaking, and she's already
calling a flitter to come get them.
One
shows up immediately, no doubt dropping someone off at Command, and they pile
in and it's off.
She
takes his hand. "Spock, I'm so sorry."
He
closes his eyes, and for some reason she thinks he's letting go of something.
And he murmurs, opening his eyes so she can see they're clear and sure and
loving, "I, too, am sorry."
"I
wasn't sure you'd care. I mean when I started it."
"I
care. I care deeply."
"I
want to walk this road with you, Spock. All the way to the end." She isn't
sure he'll follow, but he seems to.
He
nods and says, "Yes. To the end."
Spock
You
hear familiar footsteps, look up from your breakfast at the diplomatic
conference, and see Pardek approaching with a plate
laden with food.
"My
friend. It is good to see you—and all this wonderful food. I do love
breakfast." He is almost falsely jovial, but you nod pleasantly and then,
as he sits, he murmurs, "All things progress, my brother."
You
feel a surge of satisfaction. Pardek is finding those
who think like you both do. Romulans who are tired of being kept from their own
heritage, who long to hear of the ways of Surak, of
logic and intellect over subterfuge and emotions.
"That
pleases me," you barely vocalize, knowing his ears are as keen as your
own.
He
begins to tear into the food, and you know his enjoyment is sincere, not
feigned. He looks around and nods because you have chosen a table far enough
away from the buffet and beverages that you do not believe others will elect to
join you—but they could if they wanted to.
"The
last time we talked, Spock, you indicated you needed something."
The
last time you talked to him, you had just discovered Nyota had taken a lover.
You realize now you were hurt—reeling, even, from discovering her betrayal.
Ironic, you know, since you betrayed her, but you did it before pledges were
made.
You
were going to ask Pardek if he knew of a cure for Silestyan because you wanted Christine back. If Uhura had
her lover, you wanted yours.
Fortunately,
your meeting with Pardek was brief and afforded no
time to talk at length. Christine would be livid if you compromised Federation
security merely to awaken her because you were hurt by your wife.
You
are appalled now that you even considered it. You were compromised but did not
realize how much.
How
much you truly care for your wife. How badly she hurt you.
But
that is over. And your life now is good. And you have no right to endanger
anything, not even for Christine. "I no longer need the favor. Although in
the future, I might."
"Ask
and it shall be given—if it's in my means to give." Pardek
grins and goes back to eating. Then he stops and studies you. "You
seem...lighter. Did something happen?"
You
allow your mouth to almost tick up, an expression he will appreciate.
"Domestic trouble has been resolved."
"Don't
tell me you were cheating on your lovely wife." He's met Nyota at
banquets, and made much of her. There is something in his eyes, though.
Something that you are not sure how to read.
Pardek's preferences have never been entirely
clear to you. You believe that, if you were to indicate interest, he would
oblige.
"Nothing
of the sort," you say, lying in the way every other species assumes
Vulcans cannot.
And
he seems to accept that. "Good. I'd have to wonder about your judgment if
you did."
It
does not seem to occur to him that Nyota would ever cheat on you. Because she
is devoted to you in his mind, no doubt.
And
in reality, she is. She left her other man for love of you. She is a woman of
fine character. Your domestic life is full and peaceful, your regard for your
wife true.
The
Pon Farr, which could have broken you, instead
brought you closer coming so quickly on the heels of her abandoning her lover.
If you gave any thought to Christine during the burning, it was momentary.
Which
does not mean you would not choose her if she had been there, in body, not just
a memory. But it also does not mean you would.
You
realize Pardek has said something and say, "I
beg your pardon?"
"I
only said it must be difficult, marrying someone with a lifespan so different
than our own. Your father did it also."
And
your mother is sick. But you will not tell Pardek
that because she and your father have asked the family not to speak of it. She
does not want pity.
Nyota
has spent more time with her, talking and sitting in the garden, the two of
them so still and soft. You do not like to think that Nyota will die someday
and you will have to go on.
Then
again, you have already died once. It is hubris to think you will live forever.
She might well outlive you.
But
your mother will not outlive your father. She has spoken to you, told you to be
kind when—not if—he marries again.
"He
is not a man who can be alone, Spock." Her voice was full of love, not
pain, not anger. "You must accept her."
You
do not think you must do anything, other than enjoy the time you have left with
your mother.
But
for now, you push that out of your mind. "And your family, Pardek? They prosper?"
Pardek smiles and tells you of them, of his home
in the Krocton segment, of his aspirations to run for
public office, even the senate.
It
would be beneficial to have a Romulan senator espousing the cause of unification.
Most beneficial, indeed.
-- Continue to Part 3 --