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) 2003 by Djinn. Apologies to Steven Tyler—what can I say, I listened a few too many times to "Dream On" and this angstfest was the result. This story is Rated R.
Dream Until Your Dream Comes True
by Djinn
Christine waits for Spock to
go to bed, but he shows no sign of getting tired. She's excited, can't wait to
get out. She shouldn't think of it. Keep her mind on something neutral,
something safe. He passes her room once, stops in the doorway but says nothing.
She can feel his stare as she lies on the bed reading. She doesn't turn around.
His thoughts are shielded; he sends her nothing to judge his mood. He stands
there for longer than she expects. And when he leaves, she can tell he's gone
only by the hairs on the back of her neck that finally lie down.
She puts the book down, gets
up from the bed and locks the door of her bedroom in this rented house on Risa,
then checks to make sure the lock has really engaged. It has. If only she could
lock him out of her mind as easily. She walks to the closet and strips off her
clothes. Pulling out a dark dress, she slips it on; it's tight, clings to her
body as if glued on. She runs her hand over it, feeling the way her body has
thinned down in some places, filled out in others. Vulcan nutrition agrees with
her. It is the only thing Vulcan that does.
She goes into the bathroom
and reaches for the makeup that will erase some of the years from her face. The
light in the club is forgiving, and she's deft with her brushes and paint. Taupe
here to deepen a hollow, pearl there to highlight a curve, kohl to make her
eyes look bigger, whiter. She tries not to see the wrinkles that have formed,
especially the two just above her nose that come from frowning too much. She
hates those most of all. She doesn't have any smile lines—she doesn't smile
much anymore.
This is what she wanted, and
she knows that. She pursued this life that now she can't wait to flee for the
night. She wanted Spock more than anyone she had ever met. It took years, but
she finally found a moment when he needed her and she could give him what he'd
normally refuse. A time when he burned too much to turn her down.
The Pon Farr. She hates it. Hates
the memories of it. Seven years seem to go by much faster than they should. Before
she knows it, he'll be back again. No lock will stop him. Nothing will stop
him.
She can feel the anger rising
inside her and fights it down. She can't afford to get upset. He will surely
feel it.
She dips her brush into the lip
gloss and watches as it shakes. Steady. Easy. Once her hand stops trembling,
she paints her lips the dark burgundy color Spock dislikes.
Satisfied she looks as good as
she's going to, she goes back into the bedroom and rifles through the small
jewelry box Spock gave her for her birthday the first year they were married. It
was exactly what she wanted and she knows now that Uhura told him what she
liked. At the time though, she still wanted to believe he picked it out on his
own.
She reaches behind the box,
traces the deep gouge on the back. She threw it at him once. Before she learned
to hide her feelings. Before she learned how to shield.
It was during the Pon Farr. Not
the first Pon Farr when she thought the emptiness she felt afterwards would go
away once they grew closer. And not the second one when she realized the
emptiness would never go away. But the third Pon Farr when she was sick and
didn't want him near her. He didn't have a choice, of course. And if he didn't
have a choice, then neither did she. She was overwhelmed by the power of his
need, had no alternative but to do what he wanted, what he required. Between
that and the virus she'd picked up, she was tired enough to die. She should
have been so lucky.
"I'm sorry," he
said as he finally left her. And he set down a package on the pillow next to
her.
She looked at it dully. Then
turned away.
He opened it for her and showed
her a necklace he told her had last been worn by his grandmother. It was
beautiful.
She hated it.
"I will put it with the
others," he said, carrying it over to the jewelry box. Back then, she
never wore the things he gave her; she just let them sit in the box. They were
the only things in the box.
"Can you not even try,
Christine?" he said as he walked to the door. His look was full of
disappointment.
Tired, hurting, and angry
beyond reason, she somehow managed to get out of bed and lurch to the dresser. Picking
up the box, she hurled it at him. It would have hit him in the head, if he
hadn't knocked it aside with his hand. The box hit the bedside table, the metal
corner scoring a deep groove in the back. When it hit the ground, the jewelry
spilled onto the floor.
She stared at it for a long
moment, then met his eyes. She could still feel his mind in hers, even though
he'd pulled away hours earlier. She could always feel him in her for weeks
afterwards. I hate you, she sent as hard as she could, hoping he could
hear her through the anger and bitterness.
If he heard her, he gave no
sign.
She reaches into the box and
pulls out a particularly valuable necklace. She wears them now, these baubles
he no longer gives her. Wears them whenever she goes to the club. She smiles as
she locks the Vulcan sapphires around her neck, then adds the matching
earrings. They make her look regal and go well with the supple dress.
It will not please him that
she displays them so. That she displays herself so. The thought makes her
happy. Pulls her mouth into an unaccustomed smile.
She takes off the ring that
T'Pau put on her finger after Christine followed Spock out of the mating
shelter and onto the hot sands. The ceremony was brief, but despite that, the
harsh dry wind and blazing sun as well as her ordeal with Spock and the Pon
Farr made her feel faint.
When T'Pau laid her hand on
Spock's head, then on Christine's, and spoke the ritual words that formalized
the bond, Christine almost passed out. The intensity of Spock's presence in her
mind increased from the nearly overwhelming sensation it had been during the
Pon Farr to something more permanent, and even more intrusive.
She would never be alone, she
realized. And promptly threw up all over the challenge grounds.
The Vulcans were too polite
to chastise her for it. But she felt Spock's disapproval fill her. It wouldn't
be the last time.
She slips on some strappy
shoes and unlocks her door, walking down the hall to the room where he works.
"I'm going out,"
she says, and feels his condemnation fill her. She can sense that he's trying
to influence her, make her change her mind.
She wonders if he'll ever realize
that doing that only makes her more determined?
She calls for a cab and a
flitter arrives more promptly than usual. She gives the address of the club that's
her favorite here. It's called Regret. She loves the irony. She never regrets
going there.
The room is dark, filled with
people writhing to the overly loud electronic music that an alien she can't
identify is playing. Couples are pushed up along the wall, moving desperately
against each other. Regret customers have no shame. It's one of the reasons she
likes it here.
She grew weary of shame long
ago.
She moves to the bar and
orders something strong and tall. The bartender recognizes her from the last
time she was in. She takes that as a compliment and talks to him for a while
until she feels someone softly grasp her shoulder then let go as soon as she
begins to turn.
"Dance?" a
beautiful young woman asks her.
Christine isn't ready, needs
to drink more. "Maybe later," she says and the woman leaves her
alone.
She looks around the room,
getting a feel for who's there, who she might want tonight. She doesn't think she's
in the mood for a woman. Thinks she wants a man inside her. A human man.
There are plenty to choose
from. One watches her from the end of the bar. His hair is light and that
appeals to her. She's tired of dark hair. He lifts his drink to her and she
gives him a slow smile. It promises a lot. He lets an eyebrow go up in
reaction. She can feel her smile fade and turns away from him, knowing he will
wonder what he did wrong.
She will have no reminders of
Spock tonight. At least not from some stranger.
Another young man stands in
front of her, too close for someone she's never met. He smiles down at her and
she decides she likes his looks. Reaching up, she pulls him even closer.
"I'm—"
Her fingers on his lips stop
his introduction. "I don't want to know." Then she lets her mouth
turn up, into the seductive grin that rarely fails her. "Just tell me
you're good."
"I'm very good." He
pulls her to the dance floor.
As the young man moves her
with him to the frenetic beat of music so loud it's almost painful, she lets
herself drown in the sensations, in the feelings. Feelings...she loves feeling
something again. She drops the shields that keep Spock out but also keep her
from experiencing anything in an emotional way, and surrenders to how the boy
feels against her, how his lips make her feel. She revels in not being able to
tell what he's thinking.
Why did she think she ever
wanted to know that? Why did she think it would be good to share a mental bond
with a man who said he had no emotions? She found out to her dismay that he
didn't exaggerate. Not when it came to her. There was no affection, no love, no
romance. Nothing. Except his mind cemented into lockstep with hers by a ritual
that Christine barely understood.
She also found out he did
have emotions for others. Did feel strongly, even loved, a select few. Kirk,
McCoy, his mother, even his father. If he was immune to Christine's charms, he
was not so indifferent to certain others. She experienced his feelings for
Zarabeth, and Leila; even T'Pring seemed to enjoy some emotional hold on him. It
hurt Christine to know that he could love her, he just didn't.
No one had told her this
could happen. But if they'd tried, she wouldn't have listened. She'd been so
sure Spock would learn to treasure her, that over the years, he would come to
care for her.
They really should explain it
doesn't work that way before some poor fool goes and makes it permanent with a
bond that only death can break.
She can feel the moment Spock
comes into the club. In the unguarded space in her mind, his anger at her
resounds.
He isn't entirely immune to her,
she thinks in triumph; as she throws her head back and lets the young man have
access to her neck. She can still enrage her husband.
She sees Spock then, as he
moves across the floor, finds an unoccupied place against the opposite wall. Christine
pushes the boy off her. "I'm tired of dancing," she purrs, as she
moves around him, so that her back is to the wall.
He's already pulling up her
dress. As the fabric moves up her leg, she can feel Spock's temper rise.
Spock's rage never fails to
surprise her. He's not hurt by her actions. Not in the way a human might be. If
she weren't his wife, he wouldn't care what she did.
But she is his wife. The wife
of an important man of Vulcan. Her actions shame him.
Yet he gives her leave to do
it. Here, on this planet. Only on this planet. Only when they come to Risa. Once
a year...for her to work out the frustration.
She loves this part. The boy
pushes her up against the wall and looks at her for permission before thrusting
into her.
She likes him for asking. Her
eyes lock with Spock's as she tells the young man to take her. Her husband
doesn't look away as she's rocked back against the wall. The boy is skilled,
pulling her leg up and moving against her in a way that brings her great
pleasure.
Pleasure: something Spock
knew nothing about. She wishes she could pack all the venom she feels at this
moment and send it to him. But she can't. He can invade her thoughts, but she
can't find her way into his unless he's touching her. And touching her is
something he tries not to do. Except for every seven years.
The first year with Spock,
she tried to win him over. Thought that if she worked hard to be a good Vulcan
wife, he'd open up to her, would begin to love her. She carried herself with
reserved grace, learned her role, her duty as his wife. She even learned to
speak Vulcan in a way that didn't immediately mark her as a complete outsider. And
he was pleased.
But pleased never translated
into love.
She worked harder. Began to
read the old literature, studied his family history. Tried anything she could
think of to make him proud of her through her interest in him, in his family,
in all things Vulcan.
And she tried to bear him a
child.
Christine shies away from
that subject, turns her attention to the young man. He's nearing completion and
Christine urges him on. She doesn't want to think about the child. The child
she could never have.
Or that Spock could never
have. That was more accurate. He was a hybrid. Like a mule, he was sterile. It
wasn't a comfortable time for them when he found that out.
Back then she still cared
about him. Cared about sparing his feelings. She said it wasn't important to
her. And it wasn't, she wasn't particularly maternal, didn't feel the need to
procreate. But it was important to him to carry on his line. And he couldn't.
He went away for a time then.
Left her alone on Vulcan. She waited for him, hoping that when he came back it
would be because he realized that they could build something strong just for
themselves. That they didn't need a child to make them whole, united, together.
Together forever.
She was a fool back then. She
still hoped. Hope was something she kicked out of her life at the same time she
started locking the door to her bedroom. He may have come back to her, but he
didn't come back for her. He came back for himself, because of the Pon
Farr.
And during that Pon Farr she
saw that he wouldn't have married her if he'd known there would be no children.
He wouldn't have bothered.
That was when her heart
broke. And when she woke up. Grew up.
And when she walked out. Or
tried to. That was something else no one had ever told her. That you didn't
leave in the middle of a Pon Farr.
Not if you wanted to walk the
next day. Or speak. Or think.
The boy sags against her and
she finally looks away from Spock. She kisses the young man. He's sweet and
wants to hold her. She lets him. She knows how it feels to be pushed away.
As he rests against her, she
remembers how liberating it felt to finally pack her things up, to realize she
was going to end the fiasco her marriage had become. She'd barely got her
things in the first bag when he was in her room.
"Where are you
going?" he asked. His hand on her arm burned.
She ignored him and pulled
away. She would leave him. In a moment, he'd watch her walk out.
He jerked her to him. His
hands were on the meld spots. She felt his mind barreling into hers. Where
are you going? His mindvoice was savage, primitive...and on the attack.
"Leave me alone,"
she said, trying to push him away from her.
Somewhere, deep down, she
thought she heard a calmer version of his voice warning her not to fight, not
to run. That it was dangerous.
But she had to fight. She had
to run. She couldn't stand this any longer. Wouldn't stand it any longer.
A Vulcan woman might have
fought her way out of that bedroom. A human woman didn't stand a chance of
getting away.
But she tried anyway.
She got as far as the door
when he threw her up against the wall, leaning heavily on her, forcing her to
stand still as his mind and body pounded her. Over and over.
She gave up hoping it would
stop. Began to hope she'd die.
When he finished, she
couldn't move, couldn't talk. He lifted her up and carried her to the bed,
curled himself around her, his hands holding her in place. Do not leave,
he whispered helplessly in her mind as she desperately tried to catch her
breath.
She felt his regret. Wondered
if it would stop him from taking her again.
It didn't. The fire wouldn't
be denied. For two more days.
He took care of her when it
was over. Was good to her in every outward way, even as he pulled further away
from her emotionally. She was too tired to try to stop him. Too tired to fight
anymore.
What was the point of leaving
him, if this would happen over and over? She'd never be able to build anything
good with someone else. Not when she had to drop her life every seven years to
appease his rut. The words of the bonding ceremony came back to her. The ones
she'd barely listened to at the time. What exactly had she agreed to?
She didn't leave. But because
they never spoke of what happened, it hung like a carcass between them. Making
everything that was theirs rot. Stink. They both turned away when she should
have tried to make him open up to her, when he should have let go of his pride
and tried to reach her.
She was the wife he chose,
and the woman he didn't love. He was her husband, the man who so many women
envied her for having. In public, they appeared solid, their foundation firm. And
it was firm. The bond made sure of that. But they drifted apart until there was
nothing warm left between them.
That was when she quit
hoping. That was when she started locking her bedroom at night.
Not that he wanted in. But it
was a signal of the change between them, of the change in her. The growing
coldness she didn't even try to stop.
She was his wife. Her bed was
icy and sharp, but she'd lie in it. She'd behave in a way that befitted the
wife of a high-ranking Vulcan. She wouldn't cause trouble. She would maintain
appearances.
And she had. On Vulcan. On
Earth. But not here. Not on Risa. She stares at her husband, seeing how his
expression doesn't alter even though she can feel his intense anger.
Once he realized she was
resigned, that she wasn't leaving, he began to relax, ignoring her. So long as
she behaved herself, he was a distant and distracted presence in her life.
She learned to shield, to
push him even further away from her. His mind could still reach her, but he had
to work for it. Casual interest in her no longer allowed him access to her
thoughts, her feelings. If his were off limits, then hers would be too. She
learned to keep everything in.
Until their first trip to
this planet. He was working; she'd come along because he needed his wife with
him. For appearances. But once they arrived, she was barred from the meetings
he attended and no one that mattered saw her. So she was free to do as she
wished. She didn't mean to end up in Regret. She'd just come from the beach. It
was hot and she only wanted some water. The club was on her way, and she
welcomed its cool darkness.
Even during the day, the club
was busy. The man who drew her to the dance floor was handsome, his touches
gentle and sure. And warm. It had been so long since anyone had touched her.
It had been so long since she'd
allowed herself to feel.
He was making love to her
before she realized what she was doing. She gave herself up to it, began to let
down the guards she had so carefully built.
And she felt Spock's mind in
hers—surprised, then dismayed as he realized what was happening. But he didn't
try to stop her.
And that night, when she
returned to the club, he followed her. Christine was already off in a corner
with a young woman who'd latched onto her the moment she walked in. Christine
was lost in the soft kisses, in the gentle hands, when she realized Spock was
there. She looked over the girl's shoulders and saw him standing across the
room. Again, he made no move to stop her. Just stood in mute, angry witness. Seeing
him watching her added a bizarre form of pleasure to Christine's tryst. His
anger made her feel alive, wanted in a way she never had in the past.
Over the years, she began to
feel guilty at how much she enjoyed his anger, his discomfort. She began to
wait until he retired before going out. Made it his choice, not hers, if he
followed her.
But he always showed up,
watching her with eyes that burned a hole into her. He watched her dance,
watched her drink and talk and laugh. And screw. She had sex with whoever
caught her fancy. Men, women, it didn't matter. They just had to be human.
She knew that would hurt him.
That she'd only touch a human. She wanted no more of Vulcans. Of aliens. Until
the time on Risa was over and she had to return to his planet, or to Earth. Where
she'd take up the mantle of a proper Vulcan woman. Would become something alien
herself.
She'd dream of Risa even as
she went through the motions of being the perfect wife. And when she could no
longer stand it, when she felt as if she'd burst from the strain, she'd go to
him and say, "I need Risa."
He didn't argue, although his
mouth would become tighter and his eyes colder than normal.
She ignored his censure,
wanted her respite, wanted a relaxing of the rules she'd imposed on them, rules
he didn't try to alter by any warmth or tenderness.
She won the right to have her
freedom, here in the dark corners of a planet no respectable Vulcan would go
to. And she'd take it. She'd enjoy it.
After what he saw the first
time, she thought that Spock wouldn't want to relive what freedom meant to her.
But he insisted on coming to Risa with her. She wonders if he doesn't trust her
to come back to him once she has a taste of freedom away from his lurking
presence. He's possessive, even if that possession has no love around it.
She pushes the boy away with
a kiss, pulls down her dress and walks back to the bar. She will have another
drink before she goes back to the house they've rented.
She always prolongs the
nights here, opens herself to the emotions she's shut down over the years. Feels
things she thought lost long ago. And feels Spock suffer even as she begins to
thaw inside.
If she can't have his love,
his pain will do. She glances over at where he still stands. His eyes are
implacable, darker than normal. She can feel his distaste for what she does; he's
making no attempt to shield, has dropped his own barriers. She wonders if he
thinks that will spoil her fun.
He doesn't know her very well
if he thinks that. She smiles then, holds her drink up to him in a mock salute.
The bartender is staring at
her. She stares back. He's young and handsome. And he wants her. She can tell
by the way he lets his gaze rake her body, lingering on her breasts. Nobody on
Risa is shy, or if they are, they don't come to this particular club.
He steps around the bar as
another bartender relieves him, moving toward her until he's standing behind
her. He leans in, his breath warm on her ear. "Every time you come here,
he watches you."
"I know." She
doesn't explain more.
He begins to touch her,
making her groan. "I want him to watch us this time."
She lets him ease her off the
stool, guide her back to the dance floor. She turns to look at Spock, feels his
displeasure increase, as she begins to move, as the bartender begins to run his
hands over her.
She rarely hurts him twice in
one night. Usually he leaves before she can find a new partner. This will be
special.
Spock is on fire. She feels
his anger turn into desire as the bartender tries to move her to the wall.
"No," she says,
pushing him away.
The bartender sees Spock
coming toward them and doesn't argue.
She steps between them, faces
Spock.
He's on her quickly, jerking
her toward him, kissing her roughly, passionately. She can feel his emotion,
his need.
He wants her. He wants to
feel her, needs to take her. It isn't the Pon Farr, but he burns for her
nonetheless.
"My wife," he says.
Then he pushes her up against the wall, takes her in a passionate frenzy that's
driven only by the lust he feels for her.
By the love he feels for her.
He loves her.
She can feel it through the
bond, feels it even more when he melds with her. She begins to cry as he kisses
her again. His hands roam everywhere, and he keeps saying her name in a way she's
never heard.
When he comes, he buries his
face in her neck. He pulls her to him, and she hears him whisper,
"Christine. My love."
All these years, she thinks. All
these years. And finally.
"Come back to the
house," he says, and she follows him willingly.
Even after all these years,
she'll follow him. She's his wife.
And she loves him.
##
Spock looks down at his wife.
She sleeps still, moving restlessly. He touches her cheek, feeling how cool it
is. He wonders if she is cold.
He melds with her, tries to
reach some part of her, but there is nothing.
He pushes guilt away. It is
easy now; he has had years of practice.
He cannot change things. Christine
is gone. In a deep, deep coma. She sleeps as she has since that night he walked
in and found her packing. He did not mean to hurt her, was too far gone in the
Pon Farr. Tried to warn her not to run, told her not to try to escape.
She did not listen.
He only wanted to convince
her to stay. But he took things too far, pushed her too hard.
He did not want her to leave
him. It had been more than just the Pon Farr fire that had made him force her
to stay with him. The emotions he normally kept under such rigid control came
loose, made him even more violent, more determined to keep her than he might
have been otherwise. She had touched something deep inside him. Panic, pain,
fear of rejection, he is not sure, even now, what it was that came out. All he
knows is that it hurt him that she would leave him so soon after learning he
could not give her a child. It hurt him that she didn't want him touching her
when he desired her so terribly. It hurt him to admit he cared whether she
stayed or not.
He knows she was not satisfied
with him, with the way they related. Or more accurately the way they did not relate.
He knows she wanted him to touch her, to want her, to love her. Also knows that
she could not understand that, in his own way, he did care for her, did want
her. But it was never enough. She was going to leave, despite the fact that
they were bonded, that the distance would make life unbearable. She understood
nothing about the resonance between them; how it could make their life a living
hell if either of them forsook the bond.
Especially in the middle of a
Pon Farr.
She did not understand and he
tried to show her. But he only ended up hurting her. He did not mean to, he
tells himself again. He just didn't want her to leave him. And he has gotten
his wish. The doctors say she will never wake up. Even though her brain
activity shows that she is not completely gone. Somewhere in there, Christine
lives still.
But she will not answer any
of his calls. The bond is gone, was gone that night and never returned. Even
his next Pon Farr did not wake her up. He had to find another partner—a service
unbonded males used. Could not bring himself to use Christine, even though his
body burned for her and her alone.
So she sleeps. She will not
wake. And she will never leave.
He sighs and walks to the
door. He has work to do. Looking back at her, he whispers, "Pleasant
dreams, Christine," before returning to his office.
##
She waits for Spock to go to
bed, but he shows no sign of getting tired. She's excited, can't wait to get
out. She shouldn't think of it. Keep her mind on something neutral, something
safe. He passes her room once, stops in the doorway but says nothing. She can
feel his stare as she lies on the bed reading. She doesn't turn around. His
thoughts are shielded; he sends her nothing to judge his mood. He stands there
for longer than she expects. And when he leaves, she can tell he's gone only by
the hairs on the back of her neck that finally lie down.
FIN