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) 2004 by Djinn. This story
is Rated R.
Disinheriting the Meek
by Djinn
Christine Chapel used to
think that life would be like the fairy tales her mother told her when she
couldn't fall asleep. Tales full of good things happening to good people. She
bought wholeheartedly into the idea that if she was nice and minded her manners
and followed orders, she'd be rewarded for that. She used to believe that the
meek would inherit the earth.
She also used to believe in
Santa Claus.
Sadly, there was no fat
little man in a red suit and there was no reward for those who let themselves
become doormats. She was just sorry that she hadn't learned to grow a pair at
the same time she'd given up on Kris Kringle. It might have saved her a world
of pain.
Certainly it would have saved her from Roger.
He'd been so handsome the
first time she'd seen him, striding purposefully down the hallway. She'd been
waiting nearly a half hour by his office. Reporting for duty, as the old saying
went.
He took one look at her and
said, "You need something or do you always loiter in my hallway?"
She could feel her face
burning. "I'm your new assistant."
He looked her up and down. The
petite brunette graduate student who was with him pushed past her, a knowing
smile on her lips as she went into his office. Chapel didn't miss how
attractive the woman was. She had the lushly curved body that sculptors
immortalized in bronze.
"You're not quite what I
ordered." He turned away.
She was sure her face turned
five more shades of scarlet. "Doctor Korby, I was assigned by the head of
the department. I'm really eager to work with you."
She thought she heard a low
laugh from inside his office.
"Well, the department
can assign you somewhere else. I told them this time I wanted a blonde." He
turned into his office and gestured to the student. "Andrea, I asked you
once already to go. I've got work to do."
The girl walked past her with
considerably less flair than before.
Chapel realized Korby was
staring at her. "Doctor?"
"You could be a blonde
if you wanted." Then he looked away and seemed to be immediately lost in
his research.
She'd come back the next day—her
hair the color of sunshine and buttercups—and Roger had agreed she could assist
him.
She still wasn't sure why
she'd wanted to work with him so badly. He'd been a genius, everyone knew that.
But he'd also been arrogant and aggressive. She imagined he'd reminded her of
her father, a tall, commanding man who'd come home on leave every few months
and throw her on his shoulders, walking her around the room with her head
bumping against the ceiling. It had always made her laugh.
She had a bad habit of
falling for tall, commanding men. Trouble was, none of them ever made her
laugh. A Starfleet shrink had once told her she was trying to replace her
father, and maybe he was right. Her dad died when she was seven, and she'd
never stopped missing him.
At any rate, she'd made
herself indispensable to Roger. She'd worked hard, editing his articles,
loading them into the computer when he was tired, her own eyes straining as she
stared at padd after padd of his notes.
He'd repay her with dinner,
then with his body. Eventually, he'd given her a ring. It had been the night
before he was to leave Earth. They had been in his favorite restaurant, being
catered to incessantly by waiters and wine stewards until she'd wanted to
scream at them all to go away and give them a moment alone.
"You're
tense," Roger said.
"You're going
away." She still wasn't sure why she couldn't come with him.
"I won't be gone
long." He gave her the empty smile that often meant he was humoring her.
It hurt, but she tried not to
let that show. She wasn't going to ruin their evening. Putting on a happy smile
that she really didn't feel, she said, "I know you won't."
She could see him sigh, as if
afraid she was going to make a scene. She wanted to sigh right back. She never
made a scene. He knew that by now, surely.
"Here," he said,
thrusting a small black box at her. "I was going to save this for later,
but I think you need it now."
She opened the box, hands
shaking. It was a ring. The stone was beautiful, shiny, and very big. Nothing
less for his wife. When she looked up to say yes, he was studying the wine
list. Then she realized he'd never really asked her anything.
"Is this...?"
He looked up and smiled at
her. "What else do you think it is? You do want to be my wife, don't
you?"
She nodded, trying not to
think how many other ways he could have worded that. As he went back to
studying the wine list, she diverted herself with the stories her mother used
to tell her. Slipping the ring on, she'd resolved to live happily ever after. Just
like in the fairytales.
And then he'd gone missing.
Naturally, like any good
fairytale heroine, she'd set out to find him. Nothing had stood in her way. She'd
found out what she needed to do, and she'd made it happen. It had been her own
personal quest. She'd diverted into nursing, earning that degree in what was
still the record. She'd finagled a posting on the Enterprise, sure that
if any ship could find her fiancé, it would be that one. And then she'd waited
patiently, like Penelope for her Ulysses, only in this case she'd been on the
wandering ship, trying to find home in the form of her tall, cold love.
It had taken so long to find
him. She'd been faithful to him. But as the months dragged on with no word,
something had died inside her. Or maybe come alive. Maybe she had a minimum
daily requirement of neglect she needed from tall, arrogant, cold men? At any
rate, Spock had been easy to fall for while she was searching for her long-lost
love. Spock was quiet, commanding, very tall, and even colder to her than Roger
was. He hadn't been the least bit interested in her, which was perfect really. She
could love him and Roger too, and once she found her fiancé, Spock would be
nothing but a moment's fancy. A fantasy that had tided her over until she'd
found the real love of her life.
Of course, then she'd
actually found Roger—found him living in a cave with an extremely accommodating
replica of Andrea. Chapel had never told Kirk that she recognized the woman. Never
shared how much it hurt her to see her there. She'd never told anyone.
Why hadn't Roger made an
android of her?
She'd come up with a hundred
good reasons why he hadn't. Her favorite had been that he'd known the woman
would never be real, so he hadn't been able to bear putting her face on his
mechanical geisha. It had made her feel better at a time when she was decidedly
not turning cartwheels.
It had also been total
bullshit. But she'd hated to think her life the last few years, the search
she'd undertaken, had been mired in that substance. That she'd been living a
lie, and she'd thrown her own life and future away for nothing. For a man who
may never have really loved her, even if he'd come to miss her after too many
years spent living with androids.
But the man was dead now—or
his replica was. Roger had died long before she ever found him. And she was
still on the ship two years later. She should be gone, but she'd stayed, and it
had probably been for Spock, even though he could give a flying one that she
was alive. Although he had seemed interested in her when the Pon Farr had come on him, but that had just been hormones,
not love. Lust not affection. And what had happened on Platonius
had been because of those icky wanna-be gods.
So she was staying because she'd replaced a cold man who
did want her to some extent with one who didn't. Her career was going nowhere
fast. And she was pregnant.
That was the interesting
part. She was pregnant. She'd heard Len speculate once when he'd had too much
to drink that Spock might be like many other hybrids—sterile. But she was here
to attest that he was no such thing. There was nothing wrong with his little spermacites. Or maybe the Platonians
had helped that along while working some nasty mojo on her birth control. Might
have been their idea of a joke?
Not that Spock and she had
done it for them. Kirk had broken their hold before anything really humiliating
happened—if you didn't count that damned song Spock had to sing. The Platonians may have juiced-up Spock's juice, but they never
got to see him use it. No one did. No one except her. And even she was having
trouble remembering it.
Which was a total lie. She
remembered it perfectly. Because the hell of it was that it had been good. It
had been good, and sweet, and hot, and everything she'd ever wanted.
It just hadn't lasted.
But it had been her special
moment. Special being a word with so many meanings. Some of them not very nice.
He'd come to her that night,
when they'd gotten back from the planet. He'd come to her door, and she'd let
him in.
She'd watched him pace,
agitated in a way she hadn't seen since his Pon Farr,
as he'd explained that the kironide was having some
strange effects on him. His eyes, as he'd looked at her, had been full of clouded
emotion, and he seemed on the verge of reaching out for her.
"Why don't you have Len
check you out," she asked.
"I do not think he will
be in a position to help me." Spock turned to her, and she was shocked at
the raw need in his eyes. "I..."
"Kironide
stimulates the pituitary," she murmured, backing away from him, even
though another part of her was screaming at her to run into his arms.
"I am aware of that,
Christine."
He so rarely called her by
her first name. The sound of it, rolling off his tongue as if he used it all
the time both aroused and angered her.
"Then maybe you should
go back to your cabin and take care of your 'need.'" It was a mean thing
to say, and she saw the blow register—she was surprised he'd give her that much
power.
"Is that what you want
me to do?" He was standing unnaturally still, even for him. As if the
least movement might jar him into some action they
both would regret.
"Yes," she said,
her voice breaking, ending in a whisper—the lie so obvious even he could read
it.
"I am not sure I heard
you correctly. Did you wish for me to go?" He reached for her, his hand on
her cheek, then moving back and back until he could pull her towards him, his
grip gentle on her neck under her hair.
She didn't resist. Why would
she? This was her fantasy. Spock, crazed with desire for her, wanting her,
taking her. Loving her.
And for one night, he did
appear to love her. Oh, not that he gushed—gushing was probably something he
was congenitally unable to do. But he touched her as if he wanted to get to
know her. He buried his face in her hair, her neck, between her breasts, as if
memorizing her scent. His body over hers was hot and strong, and he took her
over and over, giving her pleasure in ways she would have bet he didn't know
how to do—or wanted to do. He didn't meld with her though. She was surprised at
that, even pulled his fingers onto her face, trying to show him it was okay. But
he just pulled them back again.
She expected him to be a
lousy lover but he surprised her. He was a wonderful lover, and as the evening progressed,
she could feel herself being molded into something softer, something less
bitter and less angry. She found herself holding onto him, cuddling against
him. Oh, she didn't gush either. She'd learned not to with Roger—he'd had no
patience for sweet nothings. But she found herself relaxing with Spock in a way
she'd never done before.
Until she'd woken up in the
morning and found him gone. No message, certainly no rose on the pillow, and
absolutely no sign in his eyes when she'd seen him next that they'd ever passed
a night as lovers.
"You're feeling
better?" she'd asked carefully. Roger had taught her to be discreet.
Spock had looked at her as if
she was speaking in tongues.
"The kironide..."
"I am free of any
effects." The way he'd said it, he could have been indicating that his
nasty rash had finally cleared up.
She wondered if this was what
that scientist had gone through, the one who drugged him and had been riding
him like a rodeo cowboy when Christine had wandered by, disoriented by those
stupid spores. Leila. That was her name. Lay-la. Or had it been pronounced
differently? Lie-la, maybe? Either worked—if you lay with Spock, you find out
it all was a lie.
So here she was, bored out of
her mind on this ship, down one fiancé, bitter over what might have been a nice
one-night stand if maybe Spock had acted like a normal human being.
She laughed at that. Normal
human beings weren't half Vulcan. Spock couldn't be normal if he tried. And
Christine was far too normal. Other than the fact that she was carrying Spock's
child. That made her a bit extraordinary. Although special was far from how she
felt. Unless she meant special in the sense of being not quite up to par.
It wasn't that she was
bitter. Or any more bitter over this than anything else that had happened in
her life. It was just that she was angry and it seemed to come out looking
about the same as bitter. She sometimes wondered what all this anger was doing
to the kid inside her. The kid she didn't even know if she wanted but couldn't
bring herself to get rid of.
The kid who was making her
throw up more and more, who was making her belly hurt way down low as if she'd
eaten too many green apples in a row. The kid who she wasn't sure she was going
to be able to carry to term without help. And only a Vulcan would know how to
help. And the only Vulcan on the ship was the child's father.
She forced herself to walk
down the corridor, take the turbolift to the science
lab where she was relatively sure she'd find him working alone. She wasn't
wrong. He was there, bent over a microscope.
"Spock," she said
from the doorway and hated how soft her voice sounded. He wouldn't want soft. Or
if he did, he didn't deserve it. Not after leaving her without a word.
He looked up at her, a frown
starting, but then his eyes seemed to seek out her belly, and she realized
she'd set one hand on it, the way she'd seen pregnant woman do. As he lifted
his gaze, it was clear he understood, though there was little warmth in that
comprehension. "How far along are you?"
"Maybe that's not
it?" She felt like being difficult.
"How far?"
"A month at the
most." She felt the pain again, green apples on an empty stomach, cotton
candy wolfed down at a festival after eating candy apples and hot dogs and corn
on the cob. "Oh, God—"
She ran for the head, barely
making it in time. He stood over her, not touching her, and she wondered if he
felt distaste for her. Did she repulse him? Was her vomiting so anti-Vulcan? Did
those cold bitches on his home world never get morning sickness? Or afternoon
sickness? Or middle-of-the-night sickness?
But then his hands were on
her, and he was helping her up, and his expression was gentle. "You will
have difficulty with this pregnancy."
"No shit,
Sherlock." Her tone was not that of a junior officer to one far above, it
was the voice she wished she'd used on him when she'd seen him after they'd had
sex. She wished she'd been meaner then, had gotten this poison out of her
system then.
"There are steps to be
taken." He was helping her to one of the stools, his hands warm on her
back.
"What steps?"
"Treatment, of course. There
are herbs, vitamins, tests that must be run. We do not know if we are
compatible."
They'd seemed pretty damned
compatible when they'd been screwing like minks. She refrained from telling him
so.
"And there is the
question of us."
"I wasn't aware there
was an 'us.'"
"Unless you wish to
relinquish all rights to the child, some kind of union between us would be logical."
"I'm not giving you our
baby." It wasn't that she was overly maternal. But the way he'd said it
made her suddenly very possessive. Relinquish all rights? They could have been
discussing a piece of property, for all he cared.
"Then we must
bond." He surprised her by touching her face, smoothing back her hair. "We
do not have to wed, if you do not wish it. But the bond will help the
child." He brushed her hair again with his fingers. "It will help
you. I can feel your distress."
"I need to think."
He nodded and moved away. But
his eyes were strange—possessive in a way she wasn't sure she liked.
"And if I turn down the
bond?"
"You will not." His
expression was bland, but his words cut her because she knew they were true. And
it hurt her that he knew her this well and still hadn't wanted her. Not after
that one night. Not until she had more to offer him than just herself.
"What does it mean:
bonded?"
He started to explain,
technical terms about links deep in the consciousness of both of their minds,
of duty and tradition and ritual.
"No. What does it mean
to you? What will you feel?" She could see his answer before he opened his
mouth, and she looked down. "Will you even feel?" The better question
might be would he ever feel.
He didn't answer.
"Will it be
disorienting?"
He nodded. "For a
moment."
It was too clinical, and she
wanted to run away, but then the baby reminded her that running was ill
advised. Cramps rocked her, and she held onto the table until they were over. Then
she moved closer to Spock, her eyes probably as cold as his often were. "Just
do it. For the child, of course."
He seemed to sigh, and she
wasn't sure what to make of the sound. Then he was reaching for her face, his
fingers pressing into her cheek, and his mind entering hers the way it had when
they'd shared consciousness, only this time he didn't stop at the back of her
mind but pressed deeper and deeper, until she felt a pain explode within her. She
heard a low cry and realized she'd made the sound. Then he was withdrawing, but
a resonance remained. She was aware of him in a way she'd never been aware of
anyone before. His very lifeblood seemed to beat through her veins, and when he
moved away so he wasn't pressed against her, it was almost a physical blow.
She sagged, but he caught
her, and held her. Not close but near enough so that she didn't fall. She felt
his mind, a brush against her own consciousness.
It chilled her how little warmth
there was in this. Then it struck her she was trapped. She wondered if he could
read her mind, but his expression didn't change. So
the bond was not communion, it was only awareness. She imagined it would bring
them together if they were separated when the burning began. She also could see
it could be good for the child—the nausea was already ebbing a little.
"Can you stand on your
own?" he asked, and it seemed a loaded question.
"Will I have to?" Her
voice was so full of sarcasm she almost winced for him.
He, of course, chose not to
react. "You must ask M'Benga to test you. He
spent time on Vulcan. He will know what to do."
She wondered if that were
true, or if Spock just didn't want McCoy to know what had happened. She realized
she didn't want McCoy to know what had happened either. "I'd like to keep
this between us and M'Benga, until we can't hide it
anymore."
He looked surprised, then
relieved as he nodded. "Will you wish to share a bed with me?"
She tried to tell what he
wanted, but he was giving nothing away. "That won't be necessary."
This time there was no
expression on his face. She realized she'd been hoping for disappointment and
turned away before he could see how much it hurt that he still didn't want her.
Even if she hadn't really
expected him to.
He bent back to the
microscope, and she watched him for a moment, then she walked slowly to
sickbay, taking M'Benga aside and filling him in on
what had happened. The green apple gorge-fest had returned by the time he had
her on the table. Her stomach cramped as he read the results from his
tricorder, but she didn't tell him she was in pain.
She wondered if her body was
trying to reject the link her mind had so easily accepted.
M'Benga let her go, telling her to get plenty of rest. He
wanted to put her on limited duty, but she convinced him not to. She didn't
want anyone knowing yet. Not until she'd come to terms with what had happened—she'd
have to leave the ship. Shit, did she want to leave the ship? Where was she going
to go—where would a quarter-Vulcan baby thrive?
Her room was cool and felt
good. Her bed looked inviting and she was about to lie down when her stomach
cramped again, worse this time. Pain erupted, not nausea but real, clenching
pain, and she could suddenly feel some emotion from Spock as she rushed to the
head, barely making it in time to expel all the Platonian's
hard work. She heard the door to her quarters open—command override, no doubt—but
she wouldn't open the door to the head when Spock called for her. She just
stood staring down at the blood in her toilet. Blood and clots and somewhere,
buried in that redness, there had to be small bits of tissue that might one day
have been her child.
Their child.
Spock's voice was low,
urgent. "Christine, let me in."
She pulled her uniform down
and unlocked the door. As he took in the mess that had been some kind of life,
she walked past him, barely making it to the bed before collapsing. He finally
walked out of the head, sitting down next to her. Staring up at him, she tried
to reach him through the bond, tried to determine what he felt. There was pain,
but it was all her own as far as she could tell. If he felt pain, he was not
sharing it.
"What do you feel?"
she finally asked.
"I regret that—"
She didn't let him finish,
just rolled away from him. Regret? She didn't want regret. "Get out."
He didn't argue, and she
couldn't decide if that made him smart or a coward. She heard his feet hit the floor, his stride slow. The door opened, but it didn't shut
again, and she realized he was standing in front of it.
"There could be
others," he said, his voice more tentative than she'd ever heard it.
"You want to try
again?" She turned to look at him and felt her tortured insides heave in
protest.
"I am...disappointed
that our child is no more. We could, as you say, try again."
Her life seemed to laugh at
her. Her lonely, empty, unfulfilling life on this ship with him and his cold
ways and his willingness to give sex with her another shot if it meant she
might bear him a child. Coldness filled her. Coldness and fury and the need to
wound him. "Find someone else to try it with then." She rolled over,
ignoring the cramp in her belly that tightened as she moved.
Something flared in the bond,
and for a moment she thought it might be pain. That she might have hurt him, and
the thought made her insides lurch—in hope this time.
"Damn you," she
said to that terrible hope, but she said it out loud so it must have seemed
like she was saying it to him. "Go away."
Hope listened, dying inside
her. Spock listened too. She heard the door shut behind him, felt the bond
close down, no brush of his consciousness lingering other than the base
awareness of his continued existence ringing through the bond like a metronome.
The bond. How the hell would
they get rid of this thing?
The thought was stupid. There
was no way to get rid of it. The bond was eternal.
She curled into a ball, hands clenched as she tried to make the pain inside
her stop. It took her a long time to realize she was weeping.
It took her much, much longer
to stop.
##
Days passed, then weeks. Chapel
tried to ignore the hum of the bond, tried to pretend it was like the
background noise that used to plague those who suffered from tinnitus. A dull
ringing, a faint throbbing. Both could be born. Both could be gotten used to.
Spock avoided her. But at
times, when their paths crossed, he seemed to open up a bit, and the bond would
throb with both their emotions. She sensed resignation, disappointment, and
occasionally fury.
The fury was usually when
their paths crossed and she wasn't alone.
They weren't wed, she and
Spock. He'd said it himself. She didn't owe him any faithfulness. And it wasn't
that she was trying to hurt him. Just because she was sleeping with men she
barely even liked. That didn't mean she was doing it to hurt him.
Then he disappeared. He and
the bond. Gone, just like that. One day there, then boom, erased. Only he came
back. But different. Wilder somehow and saddened and leaving the bond more open
than he ever had. Strong emotion pounded out at her.
Strong emotion that was not for
her.
She went to his quarters when
the emotion kept her up for the third night in a row. Raw, sexual heat poured
into her as she approached his door.
The door slid open—he'd known
she'd come, apparently, had programmed his door to expect her—and she ventured
into the quarters she hadn't been in since his Pon
Farr. Red and black and glowing flame met her.
Spock was meditating, or at
least pretending he was. The pounding in her mind told her otherwise.
"Stop it," she
said.
His eyes opened. He stared at
her as if she were some kind of lower life form. "Stop what?"
"I can't sleep."
"That is hardly my
concern." His voice was raw as he closed his eyes. "You can see
yourself out, Christine?"
Her anger, always so close to
the surface these days, erupted but she forced it back down like a volcanic
surge of lava she must swallow, the heat and stink nearly choking her as the
strong emotions tried to surge back up. "I can do more than show myself
out. I can leave."
His eyes opened.
She smiled and knew it was an
ugly smile. "I'm leaving the ship. I'm going to medical school." Until
that moment, she hadn't realized she even wanted to do that. But it had the
ring of truth under all that anger. She wanted to move on. Not sit stagnating
here with her millstone of a non-husband around her neck.
She turned, smiling. She
would go to med school. To hell with Spock.
"Her name was Zarabeth, and I loved her."
The words tore through her. Len
had told her the story. She knew the name; she knew Spock loved the woman. But
to hear it this way. It hurt. It shouldn't hurt, but it did.
She turned to look at him.
"She was everything I
once thought you were. Genuine, brave, strong. Loving." His face twisted
as if he'd bitten into a lemon. "Lost. She is lost. I have lost her."
Before he could continue the
conjugating exercise, she spun on her heel and hurried out of the room. He'd
lost Chapel too, but that wouldn't wound him the way losing this blonde Zarabeth had.
Chapel walked into her
quarters, staring at herself in the mirror. She pulled her hair out of the
stupidly elaborate hairdo. Why did she wear it like this? All these years
blonde. And why? Because Roger had wanted that? Because Spock preferred it?
What did she want?
She turned, moving quickly
before she could lose her nerve.
The barber was open.
"Cut it, make it
brown," she said, pointing to a dark shade, the color she remembered it
being before she started mating with refrigerators.
Refrigerators who always
loved someone else. Refrigerators who found true love in the cold caves of a
lost world.
Refrigerators who never loved
her enough. Or at all.
The barber worked fast; soon,
her hair was shorter, not short, but reasonable now. Nothing elaborate
about it. The brunette hair looked a bit dull after being blonde for so long,
but the color made her eyes look bluer, and for once her heavy makeup looked
right, not overdone. She could make herself up however she wanted, and this new
hair color would support it. It was liberating, and she felt a strange glee, as
if the darkness of her hair somehow matched the darkness in her heart.
"It's good," she
said to the barber.
He nodded. It probably wasn't
often he got to play this much. She hurried out, then moved more slowly,
watching the reactions as she walked past people who had only ever known her as
a blonde. When she got to her quarters, she pulled up the information on
admissions to Starfleet Medical. She wasn't too late. She could still apply.
She didn't waste any time
getting started.
It took longer than she
liked, getting recommendations and interim approvals. Kirk signed off easily,
but McCoy grilled her like the grand inquisitor before he agreed to give her a
rec. She didn't bother asking Spock, wasn't willing to take the chance he might
be less than honest—or too honest. She wasn't sure which would be more damning.
She finally got her
acceptance notice, flung herself into final preparations for getting the hell
off the ship. She tried to ignore the bond. Spock was making it easy on her;
he'd shut down as much as he probably could. What had been a dull roar after Zarabeth was now barely more than the annoying
drip-drip-drip of a leaky faucet.
Some of the men she'd slept with
after Spock wanted to sleep with her again. But she was done with that, didn't
want to dredge up any resentment on Spock's part, not wanting to do anything
that might open the bond up between them again. She'd even sat with him when Lester
had taken over the captain's body and wanted to try Spock. She'd shown him the
only support she could—not that he'd appeared to care.
And now she just wanted to
start fresh, to start over. Not hurting him, but far, far away from him.
Of course, away from him
meant away from them all. Uhura organized a party, lots of people came, but
then lots of people always did come to parties, especially going away ones—no
telling what might happen at one of those.
"Christine?"
She turned and was surprised
to see Spock at her party. She knew her look was wary.
He moved a little closer,
nodded as if bidding her farewell. His expression didn't change as he said,
"I must speak with you before you leave."
"No time like the
present."
"Alone."
"Fine, tomorrow
then."
"Tonight
would be preferable."
She suddenly felt mean. The
desire to not hurt him fell away at the imperiousness of his tone. "I may
not be alone tonight."
His expression didn't change,
but she was surprised to feel frustration surge up into the connection between
them.
As he turned, she murmured,
"Fine. Tonight then. I'll come to you."
He nodded tersely and left
the room.
She lingered, delayed as long
as possible saying goodbye to Uhura and Sulu and Chekov and poor sad Scotty who
decided that the night before she left might be a good time to tell her he'd
harbored a crush for all these years.
Not that she'd have been
likely to take him up on that. He was far too warm for her tastes. How could
she have frozen in his embrace?
Finally walking away from
them all, she headed down the long corridor to Spock's quarters. She rang the
chime, heard him call for her to enter.
He was sitting, staring at the
fire pot, his back to her.
"You wanted to see
me."
He didn't turn. "I
wanted to talk to you."
She laughed,
the sound enormously bitter. This man could wound her so easily. He was almost
as good at it as Roger had been; only she thought it was somehow worse when
Spock did it. He did it naturally—with Roger, at least she'd known he was doing
it on purpose. Intent somehow softened it—in some sick way, Roger had been
thinking of her.
"So
talk. I don't have all night." Actually, she did. She was far too keyed up
to sleep.
"There are things you
should know. About the bond."
"Fine time to bring that
up. Maybe before we bonded might have been a better time to go over the do's
and don'ts?"
"You are no doubt
correct." His easy acquiescence surprised her.
A silence fell between them,
a silence made uncomfortable by the guttering of the lamp, the flame casting
strange shadows on his face as she moved a bit so she could see him better.
"So
spill. The bond. Great, untold, Vulcan secrets."
Still, he said nothing.
"Fine, I'll start. Is it
permanent?"
He nodded. But then she'd
known it was a forever thing.
"Will I be sorry we did
this in seven years, give or take?"
"You will be called back
to me. Or I will find you."
"Sweet." Her tone
told him she viewed that eventuality as anything but. "So
I will be sorry."
"Only you can answer
that."
She didn't answer. Wouldn't
answer. Not when the thought of being with him still caused some part of her to
hope, to thrill. She hated that she still wanted him.
He finally turned to look at
her, and she was surprised at the level of emotion in his eyes. "Stay,"
he said, the word so low she thought she'd imagined it, until he repeated it. "Stay."
One word. It should mean
something. He wanted her to stay.
"Why?"
One word too. One that
demanded more than just this emotional roller coaster he seemed to be on. He'd
lost Zarabeth. He'd almost lost Kirk when the
captain's insane ex-girlfriend had switched bodies with him. Now Spock was
losing her. His bondmate.
Was that even an accurate
term for what they were? "Are we mates?"
He didn't answer.
"We are not wed."
"We are not," he
said.
"But are we mates?"
He looked up at her, his eyes
angry this time. Then he forced down the emotion. "Yes. It is why I will
find you during the burning."
She felt hope and some other
emotion that might have been love—if love was blurry and angry and hurt like
hell when it raced through you.
"I'm not staying," she
said, not realizing she was going to say it until the words were out of her
mouth. "I've mortgaged enough of my life for my mates." She
put a bitter emphasis on the word. Mates. Lovers. What did that mean? Why did
love matter, if it never made her happy?
Wasn't love supposed to feel
good?
"Christine. I care for
you."
She looked at him—laughed at
him. It was cruel but that didn't stop her. He cared for her? God help her,
then, if he ever disliked her.
"Goodbye, Spock."
She left him, didn't turn
around even when she heard his robe rustle as if he'd reached out for her.
He cared for her?
That was a good one.
Did he really think she was
that stupid?
She walked to her quarters,
the last time she'd do this. Tomorrow, she'd walk away from them for the last
time. Away and off the ship, to her future.
Away from the man she might
have just wounded terribly.
She shied away from that
thought.
But she couldn't stop herself
from checking the bond, trying to reach him through it.
He'd closed down completely. Even
the drip-drip-drip was gone. She imagined it would only open up again when the
burning started.
She wondered if this was how
it had been between him and T'Pring.
Had he told T'Pring he cared for her too? Had she cared?
Chapel forced her mind off
Spock. She was over him, done with him. At least until his next Pon Farr. She was a free agent, with a clear future ahead
of herself. She had nothing to feel sorry for, nothing to regret, not when she
was taking the steps she needed to take to reclaim her
life.
But if that was so, why
couldn't she fall asleep?
She tossed and turned the
whole night. Fortunately, she slept on the shuttle, once she was finally away
from the Enterprise and from the man who she could still feel somewhere
deep inside her.
##
Medical school was fun. In
fact, it was more fun than Chapel expected, easier than she'd thought it would
be, and the days rushed by in a study-filled haze. She almost forgot about the
bond, about Spock and his child who would never be. Almost but not quite.
But even almost was all
right. Each day, almost moved closer to becoming actually forgetting. As Nurse
Chapel gave way to Doctor Chapel, it became easier to close herself off and
push the bond further and further away from her core.
The bond felt very far away
as she walked down the halls of Starfleet Command after a late night of rounds,
cutting through the warm corridors instead of walking outside. The hallways
were nearly deserted, and she turned a corner toward the back exit when she
suddenly felt as if hands were reaching into her skull, burning hands that
grabbed the bond and pulled for all they were worth.
Falling to her knees, she
barely registered the pain of impact as the bond was yanked hard again, and
terrible, raging agony rushed through her. She gave a moan, then cried out as
she realized it wasn't Spock doing this.
He was there; she could feel
him, but there was another person tearing at the bond. A woman. A priestess,
she sensed from the other presence. A priestess who tore the bond in two with
absolutely no emotion at all, leaving Chapel reeling on the floor of Starfleet
Command. And setting Spock free. That was the last thing she felt from the
unknown woman as she pulled out of her brain. Spock was free now. Free of her. And
free of his emotions.
Chapel's head exploded in
pain, and she started to cry.
"There now." Strong
hands grabbed her shoulders. "What's wrong?"
She looked up into eyes that
seemed to be filled with compassion and worry for her.
The man helped her stand. "I'll
get you to Starfleet Medical."
"I'm a doctor," she
murmured, sure that this was crucial information.
"Would it be crass to
say 'Physician, heal thyself'?" His grin was full of warm good humor. He
was not mocking her as Roger would have.
And she found herself smiling
at him. "Not crass but perhaps useless. I'll be fine." She wiped her
eyes, trying to ignore the lingering pain in her head.
He dropped one hand off her
shoulder, the other stayed put and seemed warm and full of connection.
She smiled up at him but knew
the expression was a shaky one. "I'm sorry. It's a personal problem."
He laughed again, and she
knew by his expression that what she'd said sounded awfully odd. But he didn't
press.
"If I can't take you to Medical,
then let me buy you some coffee?" He let go of her but seemed to notice
she was shaking. "Or maybe a good stiff drink?"
"Maybe both? An Irish
coffee sounds good."
He nodded and walked with her
to the officer's club. She noticed he was a commander and felt funny being so
outranked. But then he looked over at her and grinned, and she found herself
grinning back. She thought he was younger than she was, despite his much higher
rank. Younger and eager, yet something told her that inside he'd been hurt
enough to be cynical, but he wasn't going to show that to the world. His mask
was a smile, his protection that sparkle in his eyes.
She wondered what kind of
pain this man had ridden out. And if it had ever made him crash to the floor in
the middle of Command. She rather doubted it had.
She slid into a booth as he
ordered from the bartender and carried their drinks over.
When he sat down, she held up
her drink. "What shall we drink to?"
His smile was sad this time. "You're
the one in pain. You get to pick."
"To broken
bonds." She laughed. Why not finish it? "And broken hearts."
"Hear, hear." He
touched his glass to her mug, the sound somehow reassuring. "Broken hearts
are no fun."
"You know this from
experience, I take it?"
He nodded.
"You lost someone?"
He nodded again.
"It hurts when they
leave."
He looked down. "I left
her." He made a face. "That's pretty stupid, isn't it? I left her,
and I have the broken heart."
She realized it was pretty
stupid, but that she was guilty of the same thing. "Sometimes, when they
want us to stay, it's worse."
"That it is." He
took a sip of his drink, something clear with lots of ice. "It makes it
worse when they aren't human. Do not fall in love with aliens."
She lifted her mug. "Words
to live by."
"Mine was Deltan."
She laughed. "Well, at
least you had good judgment. Mine was Vulcan."
"Ooh, cold."
"That word suddenly
seems so insufficient." She sipped her coffee, the hot beverage combining
with the whiskey to make her very warm inside.
"My name's Will."
"Christine."
He nodded. "Pretty
name."
"Thanks." She
reached out and touched his hand briefly, suddenly feeling she should make
contact with him.
He smiled as she did. "So what was that little show you put on in the hallway? A
show only I saw, in case you were worried."
She had been a little
worried. "It's a long story."
"I'm not going
anywhere." He smiled again, and she marveled he could cram so many
different emotions into his smiles. "I'll open my wounds if you open
yours."
"Is that wise? Could get
messy."
He nodded. "Probably
will get messy. But..."
"But...?"
He took a deep breath. "But
I've never talked about it to anyone. And I bet you haven't either, have
you?"
It was odd to think of it
that way. Only M'Benga had known. She hadn't told her
friends, her family, anyone.
"Some things are better
kept secret," she said.
"Unless you find someone
who has a secret bad enough to make yours worth sharing?"
"That makes no
sense."
"You know what I
mean."
She did too. Tit for tat. Soul
sharing in exchange for more of the same. She could trust him because he was
going to trust her. "Mutually assured destruction?" It was such an
old idea.
"Well, I wasn't thinking
so much of destruction." Again the beautiful
smile. "Just some sharing."
"You go first
then," she said, leaning forward.
The story was more
heartbreaking than she thought her own was. She'd had a reason to run. She'd
been freezing in her own life. He'd just felt as if he was in danger of
drowning—in happiness. He'd left without saying goodbye. Such cowardice
surprised her.
"You think less of me
now." He looked down, no grin this time.
"Yes." She touched
his hand. "But that's okay. My opinion was pretty high to start with. You
have room for demotion."
Their eyes met, and there was
a moment of connection. Not rock-her-world, "I must have you now" attraction
but something else. Something nicer.
"Besides, you may think
less of me when you hear my story." She looked down. "I wasn't very
nice."
She told him what had
happened. Surprised herself with how honest she could be. Found herself a bit dismayed
at how flip she could be over her own pain. When she stopped talking, she
looked up at him. "Well?"
"You were a prime
bitch." He took her hand, didn't just touch it but held it. "And
you've been with the wrong men." His hand tightened, and she felt his
touch clear to her toes.
"You have a suggestion
for some other type?" Her voice was way too husky to be anything but a
come-on, and she felt herself blush.
His hand tightened on hers. "Ask
me that after a few more dates."
She laughed. "Is that
what this is?"
He nodded. "Officially,
as of this moment, it's our first date."
She glanced at his nameplate.
Decker. That Decker? "I met your father."
He nodded, no surprise on his
face. Then he seemed to put two and two together. "And I saw your Vulcan
lover once. Standing with Captain Kirk at an awards ceremony."
"I didn't say who my
lover was."
"You didn't have to. Not
if you were on the Enterprise."
"He's famous. Both of my
cold men were." She smiled, but knew it was bitter. "Do you hate
Kirk?"
"For what?" It
wasn't a denial; it was as if Will just wanted clarification.
"For surviving when your
father didn't?"
"Sometimes." He
looked down. "But Kirk's been good to me and mom. I shouldn't hate him. Not
when he's looked out for me." He laughed when her smile of understanding
turned into a yawn. "And I'm keeping you up far too late—or else that
whiskey just kicked in."
"A little of both,"
she said, realizing that her voice was soft. Softer than she'd heard it in a
long, long time.
"Can I walk you
home?"
She nodded, letting him take
her arm and leaning on him in a way she didn't normally allow herself to do.
"How's the head?"
he asked as he dropped her at her door.
"It'll survive." She
looked down. "I'll survive."
"You're still in love
with him," Will said, his tone not judging, just pointing out the painful
truth.
"And you're still in
love with your Deltan."
"I am." He sighed. "I've
gone round and round. Wondering if it's fair to be with anyone else when my
heart is gone."
"It's not gone. Tarnished
maybe. Spoken for. Broken even. But not gone."
"How do you know?"
He rubbed down her uniform, his hand brushing from her collarbone to her belt,
running straight down between her breasts.
"Because mine is in the
same shape."
He began to run his hand down
her body again and she captured it, moving it slightly so that it did touch her
breast. He made a small, helpless sound.
"I know I'm not your
type," she said, touching her hair and making him laugh.
"And I'm not
yours," he said, fingering his non-pointy ear tips.
"I'll chance it,"
she said, wondering at her sudden need for him.
"What about our other
dates?"
She began to smile. "What
about them?" She palmed open her door, pulling him into her apartment. "Unless
you want to wait?"
"Want would be such the
wrong word." He pulled her to him, his lips leaving no doubt that he
wanted her.
She wanted him just as much. Lust
was such an uncomplicated emotion. As was the affection she had no right to
feel for him but did anyway. He seemed to be feeling the same thing. The sex
was great; the sharing in between, when they told each other even more secrets
about their doomed relationships, was even sweeter.
She eased awake in the
morning; she was curled against him and woke him with a kiss.
"Mmm.
I could get used to this." The statement hung between them, and they
stared at each other.
Then they both burst out
laughing.
He kissed her playfully. "I
am going to see you again, you know."
She kissed him back just as
lightly. "You bet you are." Then she pulled back a bit. "But no
promises. No angst. Just this. Happy and light, and always friends."
He nodded. "I know
you'll always love him." She started to answer, and he said it for her,
"And I'll always love her."
It was strange to not feel
sad that such a wonderful man would never love her best. But she didn't.
And he certainly made love to
her like she was the only thing he needed.
When they lay quietly again,
he whispered. "Can I tell you a secret?"
She nodded.
"I'm going to be
promoted."
She turned to him, delighted.
"That's great."
"Can I tell you another
secret?"
"Yes."
"I'm getting the Enterprise."
"No, you're not."
He nodded, a look of deep
satisfaction on his face. "We're in refits now."
"She's a good ship,
Will."
He nodded, and she could tell
he was happy she understood.
They got up, showering
together, which led to some rather risky naughtiness. When they finally got
dressed, and had eaten, he left, after several false starts getting out of her
doorway because he kept coming back to kiss her again.
"Your pretty ship is
waiting for you," she said with a smile.
"Yes, she is." He
kissed her again. "And you're going right back to bed the minute I'm gone,
aren't you?" He looked wistful. They hadn't gotten much sleep, and she
felt guilty as she nodded.
"Dream of happy
things," he said.
She nodded. If she was lucky,
she'd dream of him. He was the happiest thing she knew. As it turned out, she
was too tired to dream, or just too tired to remember any if she did dream.
When she started her shift,
she checked her comms, almost expecting a message from Spock, some kind of
apology. But there was nothing.
Nothing came in as she worked
either. That much pain—what if she'd been with a patient? Did he even care that
he might have gotten someone hurt?
Did he care about anything? She
certainly hadn't gotten a lot of warm fuzzy feelings from the woman who had
snapped their bond.
She gave up thinking about
Spock. Let herself think about Will. The nurses smiled at her as she worked. She
must be giving off great vibes. Good sex would do that.
At the end of her shift, she
was walking back down the corridor where she'd collapsed the night before, when
she saw Will leaning nonchalantly against the wall, as if he didn't know she
was there. She laughed.
He motioned to her. "Mosey
on over here, Doctor."
"I'm not sure I know how
to mosey."
"Then I'll mosey." He
walked over slowly, almost exaggeratedly as if he had all the time in the world
to take the five steps needed to get to her. "Howdy, stranger," he
said, taking her arm and walking with her at a more normal pace.
"Not so much a
stranger."
He grinned. "Oh, right. We
did get to know each other a bit last night, didn't we?"
She smiled. "A bit. And
this morning too."
"I stand
corrected." He leaned in and kissed her cheek.
The hall was deserted, so she
kissed him back.
"You hungry?" he
asked.
"Starved."
"You horny?" He
laughed as he said it.
She laughed even harder as
she nodded.
"Any preference for the
order in which we deal with these problems?"
Her stomach rumbling solved
that dilemma.
"Come on, Doctor. Let's
get some food in you." He got a very wicked look on his face. "And
then we can discuss other things that might find a nice home in that wonderful
body."
She laughed, pulling him
closer. "Can I tell you a secret?"
He nodded.
"I really like
you."
"I really like you
too."
But like could turn to lust
very quickly, and they ended up wolfing down their dinners and rushing back to
his place because it was closer to the restaurant.
The sex was still great. The
sharing just as sweet.
"I need a CMO," he
said.
"Hmmm." She was
tracing some freckles on his upper arm with her finger.
"You should consider
it."
She stopped what she was
doing. "Are you asking me?"
He nodded, a smile growing.
"You just want me there
so you can sleep with me."
"No, I want you there
because I can talk to you. But sleeping with you will be nice too."
Turning over on her back, she
stared at the ceiling. "Will, that sounds awfully...serious."
"It does, doesn't
it?" He turned over on his back, his arm touching hers. "Is that a
problem?"
"I don't know."
"Yeah. Me either." His
hand stole over to her thigh, then over even more, making her laugh. "I'm
not asking you to marry me,"
"No, it's worse. CMO. I
can relieve you of duty."
He smiled. "You were
bonded with a Vulcan. Hell, you were bonded with the Vulcan. You have to
have some sense, or he'd never have done it."
She glared at him, then
thought about what he was saying. If she really were the flighty woman that
she'd always assumed Spock thought her to be, would he have bonded with her? And
would he have wanted her to stay once there was no child to consider?
"Ooh, score one for
Decker." He rolled to his side, his hand rubbing her in places that made
it hard for her to think straight. "You never considered that, did you? How
sensible you are. How much I could rely on you. And you're strong. I know
that." His hand sped up.
"Plus," she said,
finding it difficult to get words out in any kind of meaningful order,
"you'd have me for this."
"Yes, I would, wouldn't
I?" He kissed her as she gave up and just rode out the pleasure, floating
back down to Earth slowly.
"I'll make you a deal,
Will. Ask me this again in a few months. When we've had ample time to get sick
of each other. If you still want me then, and I still want to do it—"
"So
you do want to?"
She nodded.
"All right. I'll ask you
then."
"Okay." She kissed
him, smiling as he pulled her onto him, onto a part of him that didn't want to
wait a few months for anything.
He might not love her, and
she might not love him. But this sure felt good.
##
The ship was a beauty. Chapel
and Will had been discovering her together for months, working out how they
would relate, both in and out of his bed. The refits had been progressing
nicely and Chapel had been getting used to the idea of being in charge of that
wonderfully refurbished sickbay, then suddenly—with the arrival of someone
she'd never expected to serve with, much less under, again—everything had been
turned upside down.
Kirk was on board, and he'd
busted Will back to Commander, making him first officer and science officer. She
watched Will as he paced sickbay, constrained by the presence of all the nurses
and other doctors. She wanted to hold him, to tell him it was all right. She
should probably tell him she'd been busted down too, that Kirk was bringing
back McCoy, but she didn't have the heart. Somehow, she knew Will would get
madder on her behalf than he would on his own.
And he was pretty damn mad on
his own.
She finally took a break,
practically dragging him to her quarters and pushing him down on the bed. Sex. Fast,
furious, and almost violent. It was not their normal style. But it seemed to do
the trick.
"I hate him," he
said.
"I know."
"You don't want to tell
me that he demoted you too, do you?" He pulled her down to him. "I
know he did. So why aren't you telling me?"
"You're mad enough as it
is. But since you know..." She leaned in and nuzzled his neck, trying to
distract him.
"Do you hate him
too?"
"No. It's temporary,
Will."
He looked at her, his
expression mournful. "I don't think so, Christine."
He left her finally,
reporting to the bridge—Kirk's bridge now, not his bridge, even though he'd
planned it and worked on it and sweated over it. It was too unfair. This was
Will Decker's Enterprise. Kirk had no right to it.
She paced and fumed for Will.
Even as a part of her whispered that Will was untried. That Kirk would get them
home in one piece, would give Will a chance to take over once they were done
with this terrible force they were going to have to stop.
She hated that she could even
think that. It seemed disloyal to her friend and her lover that she felt safer
with Kirk in charge than with Will.
She threw herself into work,
tried not to resent McCoy showing up, tried not to notice how little time he
spent in sickbay. His recall was as temporary as Kirk's. She had to believe
that. Will would never keep Len on once Kirk was gone.
"You don't seem overly
glad to see me," Len murmured as he passed her.
"I'm glad." She'd
given him a hearty hug. What more did he want? A parade?
"If you say so."
She ignored him and kept
working. He left again, to view the launch from the bridge, no doubt, and she
quit trying so hard to pretend she was glad he was back.
The feel of the ship changed
as soon as they were free of spacedock. The low hum
and throb she remembered started up and despite her black mood, she smiled. Then
she went back to calibrating one of her new medical sensors.
"She's here."
Chapel turned around,
surprised to see Will back down in her space. "Who is?"
"Ilia."
"Oh, Will." She
felt a strange sinking sensation. At the same time, she was happy for him—if he
was going to get another chance at happiness, she'd step out of the way.
He touched her hand and
seemed to be reading her mind. "As Kirk was so damned keen to point out,
she's taken an oath of celibacy."
She smiled. "Love and
sex aren't the same thing."
He shocked her by putting his
hand on her cheek. "Sometimes they are." He closed his eyes, seemed
to scrunch them up. "Can you love two people?"
"Yes. But it's not
advised." She touched his hand where it rested on her skin.
He nodded, opened his eyes,
and smiled at her. "I didn't know she—"
"Will. Shh. What
happens, happens. I'll be your friend. Forever."
"I love her."
"I know." She felt
a strange pain in her chest, where her heart was. Her broken heart. Again. When
had she fallen in love with Will? Why hadn't she noticed and done something
about it?
She looked up at him and saw
the same pain reflected in his eyes. When had he fallen in love with her?
"We always knew,"
she said, her voice breaking as she tried to get the words out, "we loved
them best."
"I know." He stared
at her for a long moment before heading back to the bridge.
She could only pretend to
work then. Her thoughts roaming all over the map as she stared at results of
the crew physicals and saw nothing except Will's face, Will's body as he moved
over her.
"Christine!" McCoy
startled her badly enough to make her jump. "Come on!"
She followed him, sure there
was a medical emergency. When they hit the lift, she saw him grinning like a
fool.
"Spock," he said,
his grin growing. "Spock's back."
She suddenly understood how
Will felt. Except that Ilia was probably good for him, and Spock was decidedly
not good for her.
She followed McCoy onto the
bridge, was mortified that her mouth seemed to be operating without her
permission as it squeaked out, "Mister Spock."
His look had never been
colder. She couldn't meet Will's eyes, didn't want him to see how embarrassed
she was that she'd moved toward Spock without thought, that she couldn't
control the pain that coursed through her at his dismissal.
Would she ever grow up?
As Spock left the bridge, she
felt someone touch her, turned and saw it was Will. He smiled at her, the smile
sad and full of sympathy.
"Some guy," he
murmured, and she nodded.
Looking over at Ilia, she
said, "I wish I could say the same. You're a lucky man, Will."
She realized Ilia was
watching her, and backed away a bit from Will. Ilia's eyes narrowed, then she
stared at Chapel, her gaze difficult to read. Will followed Chapel's eyes, then
looked back at her.
"She'll figure it out. Hard
to keep anything from a Deltan."
She nodded, as if he was
giving her instructions of the ship's business kind. "Too bad the same can not be said for Vulcans. That might give me pleasure. Knowing
he knew about us." She shook her head. "The bitch in me comes out at
the worst times."
He grinned. "Carry on,
Doctor."
She saw Uhura watching her. Uhura
knew about Will and her. Chapel had found it impossible to keep what was going
on from her, so she'd trusted her with the whole truth. Which was good, because
with Ilia on the bridge there was no disguising the looks Will and she threw at
each other.
Uhura sent her a sad smile,
full of support. Chapel just nodded, then headed for the lift, resolved to not
be like Len and just loiter on the bridge.
She was called back soon
enough, kneeling down to fix up Chekov after he'd been burned. Ilia came over,
and at first Chapel thought she was showing off when she wanted to ease
Chekov's pain. But then the woman smiled at her, and Chapel felt as if the
whole world had brightened up.
She was not usually attracted
to women, but Ilia was sending her some kind of signal, and she found it hard
to resist. The power of Deltan pheromones was
formidable, and Chapel found herself smiling, remembering what Will had told
her about Deltan sexual groups. Was Ilia letting
Chapel know that she wanted her to be a part of Will's life still? And a part
of Ilia's?
Or was that just wishful
thinking on Chapel's part, because sharing Will with this beautiful young woman
suddenly sounded right up her alley?
She broke away from Ilia's
gaze, a smile playing at her lips. Helping Chekov up, she looked again at her. The
woman smiled softly at her, her eyes full of
invitation. Chapel couldn't look at Will, afraid she'd give far too much away
to everyone on the damn bridge if she did. She and the corpsman, who'd been too
busy staring at Ilia to notice what else was happening under his nose, hustled
Chekov off the bridge.
Once in sickbay, she finished
working on Chekov, finally letting him get back to duty. Sitting down at her
desk, she considered what she knew of Deltans, and
wondered if that had been why Will had left. Because the idea of sharing had
repelled him—or maybe because it hadn't. It was easy to imagine becoming lost
in that. Or minimized by it, if you loved the other person too much to share.
On the other hand, when
you're only the first runner-up, sharing sounded like a great plan.
She was startled to see Ilia
striding into sickbay with an entourage including a security officer. The woman
looked different, and Chapel realized there was a glowing disk at her throat. McCoy
helped her onto the diagnostic bed, and it became all too clear that this was
not Ilia. It was some kind of android.
God. Poor Will. She knew what
this felt like. She knew how much it hurt.
Ilia turned her head, looking
toward the doorway where Will stood. "Deck-er," she said.
"Interesting,"
Spock said. "Not 'Decker unit'?"
She wanted to hit him. If he
could read the nuances so damn well, couldn't he see how much this was hurting
Will? Or did he just not care?
Spock drew Kirk and Will out
of the room, leaving her with the probe or whatever it was. It was impossible
to think of it as Ilia, not after seeing the insides of it. It was too much
like seeing Roger's true nature for the first time, knowing what he was—something
inhuman.
The probe suddenly got off
the table, walking to the metal door and simply punching its way through it. Chapel
watched as Kirk assigned Will the duty of escorting the thing around. She knew
why he was doing it, but she hated him for it just the same. Did no one here
have a heart?
Although if getting through
to the probe was their only chance, maybe she could find something in Ilia's
things that might help? She hurried out of sickbay, making her way to the
lieutenant's quarters. She found some of Ilia's personal items packed in a
small satchel, took out a headband that looked like something Will had once
described as part of an important seasonal ritual.
"Chapel to Decker."
"Decker here." His
voice was off, full of pain.
"Bring her to her
quarters, Will."
He didn't argue; he trusted
her that much. And once he got there with McCoy and the probe, he seemed to
understand what Chapel was doing.
And it worked. Ilia was
back...but only for a moment.
Chapel's heart ached for Will
as McCoy reminded him that the thing was a machine. She didn't think it was
necessary to tell him something that obvious, he probably could feel the
difference all the way to his soul. The same way she could tell that the Spock
she'd known—as cold as he'd been—was gone, supplanted by this even colder
version that made her Spock seem positively jolly.
She went back to sickbay,
feeling dejected and wondering where the hell McCoy kept going. She was just
starting to settle down to work when McCoy and Kirk came bustling in with an
unconscious Spock.
A Spock who woke up much
different than he'd been. He stared up at Kirk, his hand clasping his, saying
things she'd never heard him say. He never looked at her, and she wasn't
surprised.
But her heart started to beat
a little faster anyway.
She hated herself for it.
As soon as Kirk left and
McCoy went into the other room to run a few more tests, Spock turned to her. "I
did not ask you if you are well."
"You sure didn't." The
reply was instantaneous, and her tone was bitchy as hell.
"We may die. I will not
have another chance to ascertain if severing the bond did you any damage?"
His eyes were worried, his mouth set in a firm line as if he was forcing it to
behave.
"I don't think you cared
one way or the other if you did me any damage." She scanned him then
helped him up. "The captain wants you on the bridge, Mister Spock. Not
shooting the crap with me."
"I can smell him on
you." Spock looked at her, his eyes hooded, his mouth turning down this
time. He didn't look happy in the least. She noticed he was clenching his
fists.
"The captain?" she
asked breezily, wondering what the hell else could go wrong. From cold bastard
to this emotional basket case? Great improvement.
"Decker." The name
came out almost as a curse. Spock moved closer, surprising her when he touched
her hair.
She shied away. "Don't."
He looked angry now. Not just
peeved but downright furious. "You are mine."
"I was never
yours."
His hand caught hers, pulling
her to him. "Yes. You were."
For a moment, she thought he
was going to hit her or kiss her. But then she heard Len walking back in. He
stopped, and she could imagine the look on his face, then he cleared his
throat.
She tried to pull away from
Spock's iron grip. "We're not alone, sir." Surely the "sir"
would get through to him. She called him that as rarely as he called her by her
first name.
Spock blinked once, then
twice.
"I hope to hell I'm not
interrupting anything, you two," Len said. "But Jim needs you on the
bridge, Spock."
"Yes. I must go." Spock's
hand tightened on her arm rather than loosening, then he finally let go.
She rubbed her arm. "Bastard,"
she muttered.
He smiled. It wasn't a
half-smile, or an almost-smile. It was a real smile—only very dark, nothing
like one of Will's grins—and it gave her the creeps.
"What is the correct
response to that, Christine?" Spock's voice was pitched so low that only
she could hear him. "Bitch, perhaps?"
She wondered that he knew the
word, much less would say it. He seemed about to go on, and she wondered what
other nasty words he might surprise her with.
"Spock, stop dilly-dallying
and come on." Len looked like he'd try to haul Spock away by force if he
had to.
"This is
unfinished," Spock said, his voice still low and only for her.
"Not, it's not. We're
done here, Spo—"
He was already striding away.
Len shot her a look before
following Spock out. She wasn't sure exactly what kind of look it had been, but
it was definitely one that meant she and her new-old boss were going to have a
discussion later.
Great. More unfinished
business.
Sickbay was starting to feel
awfully confining. And it became more so when the ship seemed to come to a dead
stop. The viewscreen in sickbay lit up—Uhura must have decided to broadcast—and
she saw Kirk, Spock, and McCoy walk with Will and the probe to some sort of
central place outside of the ship. And they weren't in suits. What the hell was
going on?
She watched as V'ger
sabotaged the transfer of information, so that it would have to get it directly
from Will.
"No," she said
softly. She'd been willing to share Will with Ilia, but not with this machine.
But he wanted it. He wanted
to do it, and Chapel knew he'd forgotten all about her. The part of him that
may have loved her wasn't in charge. She wasn't even sure that the part of him
that loved Ilia was in charge anymore. This seemed bigger. This seemed to be
about destiny.
He was there, standing on
that platform, his hair whipping around him, arcs of electricity playing
between him and the probe. And then they were surrounded by light, the same way
Roger and Andrea had been surrounded by the fire of her weapon as it had
consumed them.
Then Will and the probe were
gone, replaced by pure energy. Gone in an instant. No thought spared for her. Or
for the men left behind outside, judging from the way they hightailed it into
the ship. That amused her. Even as her heart was breaking, she made herself
laugh at the sight of the heroes trying to outrun the destruction of V'ger.
But her laughter didn't last.
Will was gone. Ilia was gone.
It wasn't fair. Not again. Not this way.
Not leaving her here all
alone. With Spock.
She didn't want to be alone
with Spock.
She never wanted to be alone
with Spock.
She wandered up to the
bridge, knowing it would be expected. Scotty was in the lift as it stopped for
her. He nodded, his smile bright and shining. They'd won again. Kirk had done
it.
She only stayed on the bridge
long enough to hear Spock say he wasn't leaving. As Kirk gave the order to go
to warp, she left, riding the lift to the observation lounge. Staring out at
the stars, she tried to feel Will near her. Or even far from her. Just
somewhere. But he was gone. Transformed. Different.
She sank down to her knees, knowing
no one could see her up on the second level if she stayed low. She just needed
time to think, time to figure out what she was going to do.
Did she even want to be on
the Enterprise? Kirk wasn't going anywhere. Neither was Len. Will was
gone. Her job was gone.
And Spock was staying on the
ship.
She heard footsteps below her
and froze. But whoever it was began to climb the stairs, the footsteps hard and
firm as they came up and up and up and closer to her spot. She could feel him
as he got closer. Spock.
"It is odd, is it not? The
bond is gone, and yet I find you so easily."
She didn't turn around, was
shocked when Spock crouched down behind her, his voice low and dangerously
close to her ear as he said, "Decker is gone."
"I know that."
"I will not be
leaving."
"I will," she said,
defiance making her decide her future more quickly than she was ready to do. But
it was simple. If he was staying, she wouldn't.
She felt his hand on her head
and went rigid, ready to swat him away from her, or push herself up and run. But
he only stroked her hair.
"What do you think they
became?" he asked her. "You did watch?"
"I watched. And I don't
know."
His hand continued; he softly
stroked her hair, and she had to stop herself from leaning into him.
He said, "They are a new
life form, I think. Something incomprehensible."
She didn't want to think of
Will as a new life form. She wanted to think of him as her friend, her lover,
her future—her future should have been Will, not this man who was making her
heart race just by touching her so gently.
"I hate you," she
said.
"I have no doubt of
that."
It was not the answer she
expected. She was not sure what the correct retort was, so she didn't say
anything. They sat silently, his hand the only motion, and she looked up, could
see him reflected in the viewport. He was watching her reflection too.
"Did I ever tell you
that I like your hair dark?" he asked.
"No."
"I do." He'd
somehow managed to pull her back to him, and she was stuck awkwardly, the
position turning uncomfortable quickly.
She struggled, and his arms
only closed around her more tightly.
"Please?" Her voice
was very small.
"What do you want,
Christine? You must ask for it."
She struggled again, but he
was much too strong. "Let me go." She wouldn't say "please"
again. And she didn't make it a question.
But he let her go, and she
scrambled away. Pushing himself to his feet gracefully, he walked toward her,
and she scuttled backwards like a crab, trying to get away from him. The
bulkhead brought her up short. He reached down and grabbed her upper arms,
hauling her up, not hurting her, but not being at all gentle.
"I loved him," she
said, hitting Spock with her fists as tears filled her eyes.
"I know." He was
ignoring her blows, was pulling her to him. He was just...holding her. "I
am sorry that you lost him." His hands moved down her back, the motion
nothing so much as pure comfort. "I am sorry, Christine."
She wanted to pull away, but
she was falling apart, breaking apart, shattering in his arms. She could not
move, could not do anything except weep, and she wasn't sure if she was weeping
for Will or Roger or even for Spock.
Or maybe just for herself.
She lifted her head, tried to
see him, but her hair was in her face, and there were tears making it hard to
see. He moved her hair away, but he couldn't clear her vision. She felt
something touch down on her cheek, realized he'd kissed her, and started to cry
even harder.
His lips touched down again
and again, on cheeks, brows, ears, nose, eyelids, and then finally on her lips.
She was too surprised to react, and at the same time she felt a certain
inevitability to having his lips press down on hers that way.
She told herself to pull
away, told herself to fight him off. But he was hardly holding her now, his
hands moving to run down her back, his lips pressing more firmly, and she
opened her mouth to him.
"Spock?" McCoy's
voice rang through the observation lounge, and Spock sank with her to the floor
so they wouldn't be seen. She allowed him to push her down, knew she could have
called out, but she was too busy kissing him, too busy trying to memorize this
moment because while she might not be able to fight him, she was able to
remember how things had turned out in the past.
Spock's hands were no longer
on her back, and she moaned, but Len was gone, had given up and shut off the
lights of the lounge as he left. Only the emergency lights were on, and they
and the starlight were the only illumination in the room.
"I hated you at times
too," Spock said, as he pulled away from her and the lights flicked on at
the movement until he told them to dim again.
"Why?"
"Because you would not
let me in."
"You didn't want
in," she said, as she drew him back to her, but he only let her pull him
so close before he stopped.
He was too strong to force,
so she let go of him, lying back, his hands behind her head providing a pillow.
He moved then, his lips finding hers, his body pressing against hers. She could
feel that he wanted her. Badly.
"Why are you doing
this?"
His loud laugh surprised her.
"Because I want to." His lips touched down again. "Because I
can." Again, they came down, and this time his mouth opened, and his
tongue found hers, and she moaned. He laughed again, as if in pleasure at the
sound.
He began to strip off her
uniform, and she tried to stop him. "Are you crazy? Anyone could come in
here." As she said it, she realized that wasn't a very effective way to
let him know she didn't want to have sex.
"Computer, lock
doors," he said, continuing in his quest to make her naked.
"Spock, stop."
He did. They stared at each
other, and she realized she was breathing hard.
"You do not want
this?" His hand stole out, began to slide over the skin he'd just exposed,
and she shuddered.
"Why are you doing this?
Please, no games." She wiped her eyes and realized she was crying again. Feeling
panic overtake her, she began to strike out at him. The room, so huge a moment
ago, was closing in on her, and she could feel herself starting to
hyperventilate.
He moved off of her, his
voice low and soothing as he tried to calm her. But the nicer he was, the worse
she felt. He slowly pulled up her uniform, fastening it as he murmured strange
things she didn't understand, and she finally realized he was speaking in
Vulcan and for some reason the translator wasn't catching it.
I am not speaking at all,
Christine.
She felt his voice resonate
in her mind, and realized that he'd melded with her.
Then he switched back to
words. "I did it to calm you. If you wish me to pull away, I will." He
waited, and when she didn't answer, went back to fixing her uniform. "Come
with me to my quarters."
"You don't have quarters
yet."
He laughed, the sound
reverberating in her mind. It was a strangely sweet sound. "True. Then we
should go to yours." His chuckle made a smaller echo, but sweet too.
"How long will this
emotional openness last?"
"I do not know."
"Longer than a
night?" She pushed his fingers off her face, was instantly sorry as the
snap-tear of the meld made them both cry out.
"Christine, do not do
that again. It is dangerous as well as painful." He moved his fingers back
to her psi points, reinitiated the meld, bringing relief as soon as their minds
touched. "I will not leave you before you wake this time."
"I don't believe
you."
"Do you know why I left
you the last time?"
She thought up a lot of
different reasons. Let him see all of them. Somehow, as she thought of them,
she dredged up far too many memories of Roger. She could feel Spock examining
them.
"He was unkind to
you."
"Thank you for that
astute observation, Mister Pot."
His eyebrow went up, and she
had to tell him the reference on behalf of Mister Kettle.
"Do you wish to know why
I left you?" he asked.
She pushed him off her and
realized that he was allowing her to do it. He was too strong otherwise. "No."
She got up, hurried away from him, getting to the doors well ahead of him.
"The doors are locked,
Christine." His voice wasn't threatening...exactly. But it also wasn't
giving any quarter. The doors were locked, and clearly would stay locked until
he was ready to go—or she used a medical override, which she suddenly didn't
want to do. "We need to finish this conversation. We can either do it
here, or we can do it in your quarters. The choice is up to you."
She sighed. "My quarters
then."
He nodded, as if pleased at
the change in venue. Reaching over, he straightened her uniform just a bit. "Computer,
turn on lights and unlock doors." As he spoke, he moved her to the side.
About ten people were
standing in the hall, trying to get in.
"You are sure there is
no contamination from the probe, Doctor Chapel?"
She found herself nodding as
the others streamed past them. "I didn't know you could lie."
"It was a creative
excuse."
She shot him a look as they
got in the lift, then was surprised to feel his hand on her back as he turned
her to face the closing doors. Even through her uniform, his hand felt hot, and
then she felt a rush of lust.
"That was my desire you
just felt," he said softly. His hand went lower, no longer on her back,
rubbing her rear, then down her legs.
She embarrassed herself by
moaning, was even more embarrassed when her legs nearly buckled, and he had to
steady her. "This is too much. After Will...I can't."
"I know that you loved
him more than you loved Roger. But did you love Commander Decker more than you
do me?" He nudged her as the lift doors opened.
It was a short walk to her
quarters; she opened the door and he pushed her in gently.
"Lock the door and
answer my question," he said, as he began to pull off her uniform again.
She was naked before she could
tell the computer to lock the door. He was naked before she could answer him. As
he pushed her down on the bed, she said, "I don't love you. At all."
"Now who is lying?"
he asked, as he kissed her hard, then began to move away from her lips, kissing
down her body, making her moan and writhe and finally call out.
Suddenly he was back up,
kissing her lips, his hand on her face, bringing the meld into play again. "If
you will not tell me, then show me." And then he was pushing against her,
his thoughts battering her for information.
"I don't love you."
The words echoed in the meld—but they echoed as I love you.
She brought her hands up,
tried to push him away—if you could call wrapping her arms around him pushing
him away?
He moaned, a sound of pure
satisfaction. She could hear it with her ears, sensed an echo of it in her
mind.
"We did not meld when we
made love after Platonius, Christine." He was
whispering in her ear, even as in her mind he sent images of her writhing in
pleasure as he made her come, of her kissing him—everywhere—and of her lying
curled up against him when they had rested.
"Don't."
He kissed her, his body
joining with hers, and she moaned again, pulling him closer, her legs coming up
to wrap around his waist.
"Don't." She kissed
him, hard and fast, her tongue finding his and twisting around his mouth.
He moaned this time. Moaning
was the only sound he made for some time. Then he said, "I left you before
you woke, because I was afraid that if I did not, I would never leave
you."
She stopped moving, and so
did he. His hands rested lightly on her face, his lips
close to hers but not touching.
"I did not meld with you
because I was afraid I would feel too
much." He shook his head. "After what the Platonians
did—to feel so strongly and not know if it was you or the kironide,
well, that was confusing on its own. But to wake up with you in my arms and
know that the kironide had worn off, but that I still
felt so much. That was terrifying."
He leaned down and kissed her
softly. "I wanted you, but I could not allow myself that indulgence
again."
"I don't believe
you."
"Then believe
this." As his fingers pressed down painfully on her cheek, he opened
himself to her. Emotion, intense emotion, rolled over her. She felt love and
lust, warmth and affection. He had respect for her as a nurse, respect that had
only grown for her now that she was a doctor—and because she'd left him.
She felt his jealousy over
Will, jealousy that surprised her because it went back to before Spock had
melded with V'ger.
"The bond was never
completely broken, Christine. The priestess destroyed most of it, but there was
a small piece left and it was only later that I felt it."
"When?"
"I am not sure. When
V'ger called to me perhaps. I only knew that you were part of what I sought. But
I thought it was to reject you. I thought it was to finally say goodbye and
destroy that small part left of what we were." He kissed her. "I do
not know if I will be able to share my feelings this way once the effects from
the meld with V'ger have worn off. It is why I must do this now,
Christine."
He sank into her, both
physically and through the meld. She moaned and felt him open up more. Felt...love.
He loved her?
He loved her.
"I was relieved when you
came to me and told me you were pregnant. I thought that I could have you, but
you would not need to know the depth of my feelings." He looked down, and
she could feel his shame. "I sometimes wonder if the bond actually hurt
our child. It should have been something much deeper than what I made it. I
tried to protect myself. It should have provided you and our child warm
comfort, but I twisted it into something cold."
"I froze in it."
"I know. I am
sorry."
She could feel him inside her
mind again, going deeper but not just looking around—he was looking for
something very specific. And then he found it, the remnant of the bond. He
touched it with his thoughts, and it twinged in sudden response.
The unexpected feel of him
that way again was too much; she burst into tears. "No."
"I am not going to
damage it. Or try to reinstate it." He kissed her tears away. "Not
until you are ready, at any rate. And not until I am less emotionally
unstable."
"Is love an
instability?" Her voice was bitter and hard. If she could push him out of
her, she would, but he was too strong and her legs were still wrapped around
him.
"No, love is not." He
began to move, the strange smile beginning as she gave herself over to him, as
she fell again into pleasure. "You are beautiful," he whispered to
her. His mind voice echoing the thought.
She buried her face in his
neck as he took his own pleasure, crying out softly. Unwrapping her legs from
around him, she allowed him to escape. When he was off her, she rolled to the
side, her back to him.
"Is this too much?"
His lips were on her back now, then her neck, causing her to shiver.
"Yes."
His hand stole around her
side, coming to rest under her breasts, while his body pressed against her
back. "Do you want me to go?"
"Yes," she said, as
her hand came down on his, holding him in place.
"Then I will go
soon."
"Yes," she said. "I
hate you."
"I care for you as well,
Christine." He pulled her face gently toward him, just far enough so he
could kiss her on the lips. His arms drew her closer, his leg coming up to hold
her in place.
She couldn't move, couldn't
escape, couldn't do anything but let him kiss her.
It was heaven.
"Close your eyes,"
he said, releasing her lips finally, letting her relax against the pillow.
She closed her eyes. Why was
she obeying him like this? Why did it feel so good just to give herself over to
him?
"You will stay on the
ship?" His lips touched down again on her neck. He moved her hair out of
the way so he could get higher, and she shuddered with pleasure.
Would she stay on the ship? "We'll
see what you're like in the morning," she finally said. "What you're
like lots of mornings."
"That is
acceptable," he said, his hand tightening on her. He whispered to her. "I
am sorry for how I treated you. I am not sure that I will be able to say that
again, either, so I will say it now."
"I can't say it's
okay."
"I do not expect you
to." He moved closer to her, which she wouldn't have thought was possible.
Lying next to him this way felt like lying next to a heater. The warmth was
comforting, his strength was too.
"I love you," she
murmured, wishing immediately that she could take it back. She tensed.
He only kissed her neck
again, letting the declaration settle slowly, gently between them.
"Sleep well," he
finally said. Then he was quiet, and she could tell he was asleep from the
pattern of his breathing.
She lay awake for a while
longer; as she was just falling asleep, she thought she saw a bright light fill
the room, thought she felt a soft tingle as ghostly lips touched her cheek.
She opened her eyes, was
surrounded by light. The light swirled and danced, and she smiled despite being
a little afraid.
She thought she heard it say,
"Good luck." Then it was gone.
She finally relaxed but
realized that Spock's breathing was off.
"Decker," he said
softly.
"I think so."
"I am not sure if it is
comforting or not to know that he can visit you as he wills."
She just smiled.
There might not be a Santa
Claus, but there were still some mysteries that mattered.
"I don't want to leave
you, Spock."
"Then do not leave
me." His voice sounded insufferably smug. More like his old self in some
ways. But his arm was tight around her, his lips resting lightly on her neck. And
he might think he wanted sleep, but part of him was pressing against her, wide
awake and ready to play some more.
She wiggled against him, was
not surprised when he rearranged her like his own private doll until he found a
comfortable place to put that part of him that was so very interested in her. Then
she couldn't think at all for a while.
But as she lay captured in
his arms afterwards, his lips again causing shudders, she said, "I wanted
our baby."
It was the first time she'd
ever admitted it. She'd never even admitted it to Will.
"I know." He was
quiet for a moment, then he said, "I did as well."
"Perhaps,
someday..." She could not bring herself to say it. Was afraid to jinx
everything.
He seemed to understand.
"Yes. Perhaps." His lips touched her neck once more in a sweet kiss,
then he nestled in against her, his breathing changing, moving from wakefulness
to sleep.
She fell asleep soon after.
When she woke in the morning,
he was still there.
FIN