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. This
story is Rated PG-13.
Dregs
by Djinn
The sidewalk at this hour of
the night is empty. Empty like Spock's
quarters on the
Spock is dead. Kirk mutters it as he walks. A cadence of sorts. Spock is dead. Spock is dead. Step, step, step. Step, step, step. Keep walking, keep going. As if everything is all right. As if his best friend isn't gone
forever. As if his next closest friend
isn't going mad because of it.
Step, just
step. Keep walking.
But walking where? To what?
He wishes Carol were
here. She should be with him. She smiled like she would be with him. On the ship, when they came back with a crew
full of battle-shaken cadets and no Vulcan first officer. But where is Carol now? Genesis is declared a forbidden topic, and
suddenly she is gone too?
But she isn't gone. He saw her in the hall, earlier, when he was
walking to the debriefing. She smiled at
him. But she didn't wait, didn't seem to
care that she represented hope to him.
She could have been home and a soft, warm place to land. Could have been all the things he never
had. Things he always wants.
Things he'll never get.
He was a fool to think that
he even had a chance. Especially
with Carol.
Alone. Alone. Alone. It's replaced
the whining rant about being old. He's
not sure which is worse. Wonders why
he's left behind, why he's expected to pick up the pieces? When does he get to collapse?
A captain goes down with his
ship. Nothing in the
rules about collapsing.
McCoy's building is in front
of him. Did he mean to come here? He turns into the doorway. He will see his friend. Maybe McCoy is better.
He sees a familiar figure in
the lobby, pacing as if waiting for something.
At her look, he realizes she was waiting for him.
"Admiral?"
"Chapel."
She's wearing commander's
bars. He forgot she was promoted. Tries to remember where she's been posted.
"I checked on
McCoy." Her voice isn't soft anymore.
It's hard and businesslike.
He decides he doesn't like
it. "Why? Nobody asked you to."
She blinks, not expecting an
attack.
He walks past her. She has no business here. She wasn't part of this, isn't part of
this. Left them all
when she left the ship.
A captain goes down with the
ship. Everyone else gets to leave. Gets to leave him.
"Sir, wait."
He rings for the elevator,
ignores her as she stands to his side. "Later, Chapel."
She sighs, and he fights the
urge to take the stairs just to get away from her. Why the hell is she here, anyway?
The door opens, he's about to
walk in and she stops him, her hand firm on his arm.
"Admiral, he's
sleeping. Disturbing him now won't do
him any good. There's a nurse with him,
I've seen to that. He's fine."
"Good." He shakes her off, moves into the
elevator. "Thank you. Good night."
She follows him in. Pushes his hand away as he
is about to select McCoy's floor.
She hits the button for the roof garden.
"Damn it, Chapel."
"You used to call me
Christine."
"You used to be part of
my crew." He looks at her, tries to
find the soft, blonde nurse somewhere in this hard, brunette officer. He fails.
"You were different."
"We all were different,
sir."
The door opens. He stands and she waits for a moment. He hopes she'll get off and leave him to ride
back down to McCoy's floor alone. But
she pushes him and there is surprising strength in her hands as she maneuvers
him off the elevator.
The doors close. The roof is empty, benches and chaises
waiting just for them. Flowers bloom in
the sheltered areas, trees in the areas on the edge. He loves this place. Loved coming up here with Bones, a drink for
both of them: scotch for him, bourbon for McCoy. They'd sit for hours. Talking. About anything.
"I love this
place," she says.
He feels his mouth pinch, angry that she is part of this place that he wants to
think is just his. Angry at the reminder
that she did not leave McCoy's life the same way she left the rest of them.
He walks away from her, to
the edge, leaning on the sturdy barrier, looking out over a city that used to
mean so much to him. A
city that seems far too empty to him.
He hears her footsteps and
tenses. But she walks past him, out to
the small pond full of koi. He considers making a break for the elevator,
smiles bitterly at the idea that she is suddenly his jailor.
He walks out to her, a
burning taste in his mouth and chest.
She turns as he comes close.
"You weren't the only
one to lose a friend, you know."
Her voice is gentler than before.
But not soft, not giving. There
is steel in her tone and it angers him.
"You
and Spock being such good friends." He spits the last three words
out.
"You have no idea what
Spock and I were." She is angry and
there are tears in her eyes. "And
McCoy has been in my life more than yours the last few years. So don't act like I don't have a right to be
here."
Rights? He is sick of
rights. He wants nothing of rights. By rights, his friend should not be dead and
Khan's planet should have been the one to explode. By rights, McCoy should be up here now. Telling her to come back
later, to give them some time alone.
"Go away,
Christine."
"No." She sits down on a bench.
"Fine. Then I'll
go." He starts to walk away.
"Coward."
He turns slowly. "You should watch what you say,
Commander. I've had a very bad few
days." His smile is the one that
bears no humor, is full of malice.
She smiles back. Her expression is no warmer than his. "What are you going to do to me,
sir?"
He stalks over to her, then stops as he reaches her. She is staring up at him fearlessly,
angrily. Then she sniffs, and a tear
appears in her eye, works its way free and falls quickly down her cheek.
"He's gone," she
says. "And we're losing Len."
Spock is dead. Spock is dead. Spock is dead.
He sits down heavily, and she
scoots away as if he will hurt her. Or
as if he is contagious. Maybe he
is? Maybe he carries death with him? Typhoid Jim. Bringing destruction down
on them all.
It is his fault. He keeps wrestling with that thought. Has not said it aloud. Not until now. "I didn't even know he went down
there. I didn't even know he wasn't on
the Bridge. I was so caught up in the
moment." He can tell he has her
full attention. "He was giving his
life for us. And I didn't even
know."
It is hard to see. He wipes at his eyes angrily.
"You were too
late?"
"Too
late to save him. Not too late to watch him
die. Not too late to have to say
goodbye." He wipes at his eyes
again. "I didn't want to say
goodbye. Wasn't
ready."
She is silent, and he is
grateful. He doesn't want to know what
she thinks, what she feels. She wasn't
Spock's friend. She wasn't there. She left the ship.
"A captain goes down
with his ship." He doesn't mean to
say it aloud.
"Not you. Never you."
He can't decide if there is
bitterness in her voice or not.
"Why are you here,
Christine?"
"Because
I have no one else to mourn with."
He looks over at her,
surprised to hear such truth from her.
She is not crying, sits still enough to be a
statue.
"What were you and Spock
to each other?" he asks.
"Lovers. Once." She sees
the way his eyes narrow and smiles.
"The Pon Farr, Jim." She looks at him defiantly, as if daring him
to correct her, to make her stick to protocol.
He does not. There is no one but her now to call him
that. "I didn't know."
"No one did. It was do or die, as
the Pon Farr seems to be." She sighs, appears to be very far away. "He'd have died without sex; I'd have
never let that happen. It could have
been awful. But he was kind. In his fashion." She sits back. "We parted ways after that. There was no question of making it a
permanent situation."
He watches as her emotions play
across her face. She has dropped a mask
and is somehow closer to the woman he remembers. But as she turns to look at him, he sees the
steel again. Time has changed her.
"You still love
him?"
She nods. "But I moved on. I had to.
There was nothing left to dream.
I had him, and he didn't want me after that. What clearer message could I have
gotten?"
"I'm sorry."
She shrugs. "I had him. Only for a moment, but I had him. It was enough to let me grow up, to give
up."
"Move on?"
"Yes." She laughs, and the amount of bitterness that
she forces into that one sound amazes him.
"Or so I thought. Until I
heard that he'd been killed."
He sighs, looks out at the
city. "I wasn't as close to him as
I used to be. He was busy with the
cadets, and I was back at Command. Deskbound, again."
He smiles tightly. "I miss
him."
She takes his hand, her skin
comfortingly warm against his own. He
squeezes.
"McCoy? How is
he?"
"I don't know. One minute he seemed fine. Then he started speaking in Spock's
voice." She tries to pull away.
He doesn't let her. "What?"
"He knew things. About the time I spent with Spock. He was talking crazy and it was hard to make
out, everything was all mixed up. But he
said some things he couldn't have known about.
Things that only Spock would know."
She looks away. "But that's
impossible. And I keep telling myself
that I just wanted to hear it."
"Because
you loved Spock?"
"Because
Spock never loved me. I wanted to believe that some part of him
thought of me. But I don't have to ask
you if he mentioned me. I know that he
didn't." She tugs gently, pulling
her hand free.
He nods, lets her figure out
what it means. She knows anyway. The truth.
Spock didn't think of
her. Spock thought of two things. The ship. And him.
"Did you love him?"
she asks, as if she can read his mind.
"Yes." His friendship with Spock is on record.
"Were you in love with
him?"
This is newer territory,
ground he does not let people stray onto.
Ground that he does not feel safe on.
"I won't tell," she
says.
He believes her. But he can't answer, doesn't know how. "I don't know."
She sighs, a frustrated
sound. "I don't believe that."
"I know I feel emptier
than I've ever felt. I know that I'll
never run into him again in the halls, or at a function. Or on his ship...my
ship." The ship is yours,
Spock said. The ship and Spock were his. For that moment, again and forever. Until death.
Where does friendship end and
love begin? Does it matter if you throw
passion into the mix? He had never,
would never, feel more for a person than he had for Spock. That is the only truth he knows. And Spock is dead.
Spock is dead. Spock is dead. Spock is dead.
"I think he was in love
with you," she says.
He shrugs. "Too late now." Too late to know and not something he would
have pushed. Spock was his friend. That had been enough. For both of them.
"I've spent much of my
life hating you."
The admission surprises
him. Not the words, but that she would
say it. He turns, studies her. It is hard to find the nurse that he and
Spock and Bones so cavalierly dismissed.
The nurse that they all took for granted. She is stronger, but less solid, less
devoted. He senses that her new loyalty
is to herself, that anything else wavers.
That she does not pine, does not long, does not
suffer rejection.
"I'm sorry," he
says. "I couldn't change the way he
felt about you."
"I know. Neither could I." She grins, a sad, quirky smile. She gets up, reaches for his hand. "I don't hate you now."
"Why
not?" He does not reach back.
She drops her hand. Her eyes are shuttered as she says. "Because I grew up. Because he's gone. Because neither of us have
much left."
"Except
each other." This time it is he that reaches for her. As her fingers clasp his, he lets her pull
him up.
"I live in this
building," she says softly.
He laughs. So much he doesn't know. "Are you and McCoy...?"
She smiles, an embarrassed smile. "Sometimes. It's
nothing."
"Are you sure?"
She nods. "I can recognize nothing--it's easy to
diagnose." She closes her eyes as
if the words have hurt her.
"He doesn't love
you?"
She shakes her head. "Maybe he does. But I don't love him and he knows that. He doesn't push. It's just what I said. Sometimes but
nothing."
He wonders for a moment if
her attitude is payback for all those years McCoy teased her about Spock, took
her for granted. Then he thinks better
of her. Surely she would not be that
cruel.
But he does not know
her. Not this hard Christine and not the
soft one either. He never knew her. Not well.
Not enough to read any messages that might lie behind those steely blue
eyes that seem to gleam as they step into the elevator. Or to read the strange, fierce determination
in her face as she unlocks the door of her apartment, draws him in and locks
the door behind them.
And he finds he doesn't
care. Finds that he only wants to feel
someone, anyone pushing back against him.
To reach out and connect with warmth, not pain and
grief and emptiness.
And she is warm, her skin
silken as she slides against him, as he exposes more of it and she undresses
him. She is life--throbbing, thundering
life as he takes her over and over. And
he thinks that maybe he is life for her as she cries out at his touches.
And afterwards her bed is
soft and her covers sweetly heavy as they lie next to each other, not
speaking. Her hand is tight on his
waist; his is running up and down her arm.
He wants to ask her if she
was thinking of Spock. She didn't call
out Spock's name. Didn't
call out any names, just made incoherent sounds.
He doesn't think he called
out any names either.
As he turns to watch her, he
begins to feel awkward, wondering if he should go. Wondering why he does not want to. They came together for solace. Nothing more. And that solace has been given. He does not have anything left for her
tonight.
"You can stay," she
whispers, as if his thoughts have leaked out through his fingers into her
skin. She looks up at him. "Stay." The suggestion is more now. Not a plea, nothing so desperate. But a wish, a prayer. A truth.
Stay. Where there is warmth. Hope. A soft place to land.
Her body is very soft. Her bed even softer.
He snuggles into the
warmth. "Are you sure?"
He realizes he very much
wants her to say yes.
She kisses him, a gentle
touch on his lips. He frowns, wondering
why he is feeling overwhelmed, what she represents to him. At one time, for a brief moment, she was
Spock's. Is that what attracts him? Or does he find the woman alluring all on her
own? Does he want her for herself or
because she is the closest thing left to having Spock?
And why does she want him?
And does it even matter? Does anything matter anymore? If there is warmth, and touch, and soft,
caring hands, does it matter why they are there?
He kisses her, softly,
tenderly, allowing himself to explore the way she feels. Wondering if he would like
to lie with her in this bed again.
A series of encounters, not just this sharing of pain.
He wonders what she
wants. Is she glad now she is with him,
or merely coming down from having tasted Spock's love secondhand?
"We can see McCoy in the
morning," she says sleepily, nestling into his chest.
"Yes," he
agrees.
"Then I have to
go." She is telling him what he
needs to know.
He feels his heart beat
faster, hates the wave of fear that rushes over him. Fear that he will be alone. Forever.
No warm place for him. Had he really thought there would be?
"But if you want, I can
meet you here after work. We can check
on him? And, after that, if you're
hungry..."
Her words grow softer as she
trails off. He feels her stiffen
slightly, as if waiting for his rebuff.
He wonders if she has been seeking a soft place to land too.
"I'd like
that." He runs his hands down her
body, tries to tell her by his actions that he wants to see more of her, wants
to get to know her, Christine, not just the woman who once made love to the man
he loved.
She seems to relax, and he
kisses her cheek. She is so soft. The Christine he remembers is still there, is lying in his arms now. But he knows that if she opened her eyes, he
might see steel. And he does not mind
that there is something stronger, more dangerous in the mix now.
He probably needs it.
"Why did you follow
me?" he asks.
She smiles slightly. "Who else should I have followed? How many people knew him? Knew any of us? I left the ship a long time ago, but the
Enterprise and all the people on it made me who I am. You and Spock and Len, especially, changed
me. I needed to reach out. You were all that's left."
He grimaces.
She kisses him again. "Just as I was all
that was left for you. I don't
flatter myself that this would have happened in any other situation."
No. He can't see it either. He closes his eyes, murmurs, "Go to
sleep, Christine."
She shifts, getting
comfortable as he does the same. As he drifts
off, he feels her adjusting the covers over them, tucking them in, keeping the
warmth from escaping.
Even if only for a moment,
it's all he's ever wanted.
FIN