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)
2015 by Djinn. This story is Rated PG-13.
When I Finally Looked
Your Way
by Djinn
The
ship seems more crowded than the last time Spock was on it. Crewmen rushing down the corridors in a
way those at Gol would never condone. Men and women call to each other, their
voices too loud, too shrill. After
months of silent contemplation, the sound of normal crew chatter is nearly
deafening.
He
does not have quarters yet. He was
not supposed to be on this ship, back with his friends, with all these people
he chose to leave—to abandon, Jim would no doubt say. He wonders when they will have their
first real conversation about why and how he left Jim and the rest.
He
told his friend of his decision in a comm and delayed
delivery on the message so he was well on his way to Vulcan before Jim had any
idea he'd left Starfleet.
Jim
has not assigned him quarters yet.
Spock is not sure if it is an oversight or punishment of some kind. Jim is also not supposed to be on this
ship and yet here he is, and from all appearances is staying in the center
seat, so perhaps in the rush of things to do, seeing to Spock's needs has
fallen to the bottom of his list.
Again, though, this may be punishment, but Spock is not ready to ask him
directly where he should stay.
It
hurts that he has to ask. The old
Spock would not care, but the Spock that he was did not cry on the bridge. He is emotionally compromised after the
meld with V'ger, and he knows it. He is not sure if it is a permanent
state or if he will revert to some middle ground—what he was before he
fled the ship perhaps.
The irony does not escape him.
Everything
is as it was. But is everything as
it should be?
Spock
does not miss Gol—or not exactly. But as a crewman careens into him,
taking the corner too wide and murmuring apologies, and as his brief touch when
he steadies himself sets up a barrage on Spock's psi shields, Spock does have a
moment's wish for the peace he has given up.
"Are
you all right?"
He
stops, knows her voice, will always know her voice, even though it is lower
now, more serious. She is a doctor
and when she asks the question, it comes with ramifications if he does not
answer it in a manner that pleases her.
She can relieve him, and he is emotionally compromised.
"Spock?"
He
turns and is struck again by how different she looks. Her hair is pulled back simply, her face
nearly fresh scrubbed. The artifice
of their first voyage is gone.
She
is not smiling at him either.
Although she did, when she first saw him. She smiled, and her voice rose
precipitously, and the Spock then did not care, but he now knows she still cares
for him—that those were signs she was happy to see him. Even if at this moment, she does not
appear to be so happy: her face is as grim as the Kolinahr priestess.
"I
have been remiss," he says, and his voice comes out scratchy and reminds him
of all the times he was silent at Gol.
"In
what way?" She shifts, and his
eyes are drawn to her hip, jutting out because of the way she is standing, and
to the way she has crossed her arms over her breasts.
"I
have not congratulated you on your M.D."
Another
crewman yells, too close to him, and he flinches before he can stop the motion.
She
takes him by the sleeve, and he realizes she is being careful not to touch him
skin to skin. Pulling gently, she
says, "Come on, let's get you to your quarters."
"I
have none."
"Well,
lucky for you, even though your buddy demoted me, this ship still thinks I'm
CMO, so I can assign you some. You
have a preference?"
He
is unsure what she wants him to say, and she does not seem to be waiting, just
pulls him down a corridor to the lift and once they are safely on it, lets go
of his sleeve.
"Deck
Six." Her voice is steady, as
if she does not care that he is here.
Why does that bother him? She was
happy to see him. Anything she is
doing now to appear unconcerned with his presence is pretense. He should be...relieved, though. Grateful, even, that she will not repeat
her infatuation of the previous voyage.
The
lift opens, and she doesn't wait for him, marching off the lift and heading
down a side corridor to where the visiting officers' quarters are. Palming open
a door, she tells the computer, "New resident. Commander Spock." She glances at him without actually
making eye contact. "This'll
do until your transfer is permanent."
She finally meets his eyes.
"You're transferring back on, I take it? Coming back to Starfleet?"
"I
am. And you—are you
staying?" He is not sure why
he has asked that. He does not
care.
Does he?
"I
don't know yet." Her voice
finally sounds like the one he remembers.
Not so steady and stony—some measure of emotion in it. "I'm sure if I took a poll, you'd
be in the 'Please get the hell off the ship' column." She smiles tightly and turns to go.
He reaches out, touching her hand, grabbing it, skin to skin, and he feels what
she was trying to hide from him by holding his sleeve. "You want me."
She
tries to shake him off. "Damn
it. Did I say you could read
me?"
"I
would not vote for you to leave."
His voice shakes as he speaks.
"You're
emotionally compromised, Mister. Kirk
may not see that or Len, or maybe they do but they're so happy to have you back
that they don't care. But I sure as hell see it, and this conversation is just
further proof."
He
does not let go of her. "V'ger was lonely."
"And
that means you have to be? And for
how long?" She has stopped
trying to get away. "I don't
think I'm staying on the ship."
"You
have other offers?" He pulls
her closer, and the door to his quarters, which she has been blocking, slides
closed with a hiss that is different than the way he remembers it. The refits, no doubt.
"For
a job? Or for whatever this
is?"
He
finds himself curious how long her hair is so he undoes the bun, pulling the
pins out carefully, and she does not try to stop him, just stares at him almost
helplessly. "Other
postings," he says as he lets go of her hand so he can finish getting her
hair free, so he can pull it over her shoulders, then brush it back again.
It
is soft and silky. It was not so
sleek when it was blonde. He
remembers that from their time with the Platonians.
"I
have other offers, yes." She
is breathing harder and closes her eyes, and he thinks she may try to run, so
he puts his arm around her and draws her further into the room. "And this? Does another man take your hair down?" He is suddenly entranced by the smell of
her perfume, so he leans in, breathing along her collarbone, up her neck, to
her ear.
He
is not sure when smelling her skin turned to kissing it, and when she groans,
he pulls away. "Are you with
anyone? You still want me, but this
could be true even if you were spoken for."
She
smiles and he narrows his eyes, a question evidently clear because she laughs
ands says, "Spoken for. An old
fashioned way of saying that IÕm sleeping with someone."
"I
do not care who you are sleeping with provided they do not matter to you." He runs his hand through her hair,
wrapping his fingers in the strands, pulling her to him that way, and her eyes
dilate.
She
still wants him. This makes
him...happy.
"I
had someone. In
med school. But then I was
assigned here, and he went off to practice in Singapore." She looks down. "You don't care about the details,
do you? You just want to screw
me."
Unhappiness
assails him from where his hands rest against her neck. "It is the details I should care
about most, is it not? The things I
do not know about you."
"That
would be everything." But she
closes her eyes and lets him play as he wishes with her hair.
"I
know you are lovely. I know you are
kind. I know you are sad—this
is not how you envisioned your life progressing. Jim and Leonard and myself back."
"That's
for sure."
"I
cannot undo the demotion. I cannot
remove Leonard as your boss. But I
can change one aspect of the parameters of your life." He leans in and begins to undo her
uniform.
"This
is just V'ger. What you're feeling—or think
you're feeling."
"And
you may end up leaving. Neither of
us has any assurances tonight.
Prior to your arrival in the corridor, I did not even have quarters. Already you have improved my life."
"And
taking my hair down is equal trade?"
Her expression changes as he watches her, becomes something more
daring—more of a challenge.
"I
am also removing your clothing."
"I
noticed. That's the kind of thing a
gal doesn't miss."
"Yet
you do not object."
"Well,
as you say"—she moves closer, puts her arms around him—"I
may be leaving and this may just be V'ger."
"You
said that part. Not I."
She
laughs. "Shut up and kiss
me."
"And
if this is not just V'ger? And if you do not leave?"
"I'll
answer that once we've had sex."
She laughs and rubs her nose against his, a gesture that is both
whimsical and appealing, and he wonders what he has missed by not looking her
way before now. Her sweetness used to
feel cloying but now it soothes him—and he is not sure if he has changed
so much he needs it or if her sweetness now is different than it was before.
And
then he stops wondering because she is taking off his clothing, and pushing him
to the bed, and climbing on top of him.
She sinks down, and he closes his eyes, feeling a sense of completeness
that has eluded him since he first heard V'ger's
call.
He
opens his eyes and touches her, letting his fingers trail all over, anywhere he
can reach—some places more than others when he finds those that make her
writhe, that make her cry out and clutch the bedding and then collapse on his
chest.
He
keeps moving, holding her tightly, murmuring things in
Vulcan that her translator may not pick up. And even if it does, the things he says
may make sense only to him.
Want. Need. Yes. Yes, don't stop.
Or perhaps not.
They are not advanced concepts.
They are just the opposite.
Elemental.
He
rolls so he can finish with her beneath him, pulls her legs up, moving
fiercely, and she is smiling as their eyes meet.
And
then he is going, and he squeezes his eyes shut and rides out the feelings
assailing him.
Feelings
he finds he is not opposed to. He
does not know if over time that will change. He finds himself not wanting to give
this up.
She
taps gently on his forehead, and he opens his eyes. "Big thoughts. Never good after an orgasm."
He
smiles. A true smile if a small
one—he is still Vulcan, after all.
"Stay with me."
"Tonight,
you mean?"
He
nods. "And...on the ship. Do
not leave." He cups her cheek
in his palm.
She
eases him off her, but just enough so she can curl into him, her arm snaking
across his waist. "And what if
this is temporary? This
arrangement?"
"These
feelings. Not just an arrangement."
"You
were a man without quarters a half hour ago. Adrift. I found you. I saved you. You feel grateful, and I'm safe and
welcoming. You'll settle in and
then you won't need me."
"You
do not know that. It is just one of
many possible scenarios." He
nuzzles her neck, working his way back to her lips. He trails his fingers down and down
until she arches into him. He does
not stop until she is calling out his name, until she stops writhing and lies
still, breathing hard.
"There
are other scenarios?" In her
voice there is humor—and happiness.
He
enjoys the sound of her happiness.
"Many. I believe you
should stay. Explore the
possibilities."
She
yawns and he gets out of bed long enough to pull down the covers, easing them
out from under her, then crawling back into bed with her, pulling her tightly
against him as he bundles them up from whatever awaits.
Her
eyes are closing and he kisses her gently.
"Stay?"
he asks.
"I'll
probably be sorry."
"I
will endeavor to not make that true."
She
smiles, a tired half-smile, that he finds lovely. "Fine. We'll see how this goes." She burrows into him and is quickly
asleep.
He
holds her, feeling the vibrations of the ship—subtly different than how
it used to sound—and sensing the presence of the others onboard. Inside this room, with her curled
against him, he is free to reach out, to find some middle ground between the
inward-looking disciplines of Gol and the
mind-expanding meld with V'ger, to start the voyage
of determining who he is now, what Spock will emerge on this path he never
imagined choosing.
She
moves in sleep, and he kisses her lips.
She is at peace; he can feel that through the gentle touch.
He
realizes he is tired, more tired than he has felt in months. Pulling her more tightly against him, he
closes his eyes and lets go.
When
he wakes in the morning, her hair splashed across the pillows, her back pressed
against his chest, he resolves to talk to Jim sooner rather than later about his
quarters, about his leaving, and about the future. Now that he has one again.
FIN