Lifeline

By Djinn

Christine wakes and you put your hand over her mouth. She struggles but you wait—you have not worked so hard to save her for her to give your location away in her panic. Her eyes scan wildly, and it is not full dark yet so she should be able to see you but you feel her panic rise.

Either she cannot see or she does not know you.

Neither is the outcome you were anticipating, but they are not insurmountable.

You start with the easier of the two to deal with. "Christine," you lean down and whisper, barely a breath on her face, but she stills immediately and you feel relief flood her. "Shhhh," you say as you lift your hand from her mouth, ready to put it back if she tries to talk, but she does not.

Her eyes move in the way you have learned on this mission means she is assessing a problem. She is no doubt trying to ascertain the level of damage her body has sustained.

It is worse than it should be but less than it might have been.

You touch her cheek and lean in, your mouth over her ear, lips on flesh. "Rebel attack."

She nods under your mouth.

"You were bleeding. You are no longer. Please do not move or that will change. We are safe for now. I can do nothing for the pain—a meld would distract me and I must keep watch."

She nods again, and you expect panic to rise, even just a bit, but she is calming.

You should not be surprised; this is what she does now. She is no longer a doctor or a nurse or even a scientist. She is accustomed to dealing with emergencies. Perhaps she is even used to being hurt in the process. You do not know, for this is the first time you have worked with her on a joint diplomatic/emergency operations mission.

Your father has worked with her often, has spoken highly of her. So highly it was obvious he was trying to push her as a potential mate—now that Valeris is gone. You did not choose to work with Christine to make him happy; you were assigned to this mission by Starfleet and you are not in the habit of requesting alternate assignments because of past associations.

Especially when the woman in question has done nothing to make you think she is even interested. She has to be well aware that with Valeris imprisoned on Rura Penthe for her treachery, you are free. But she has worked alongside you for a week now and never mentioned it. Her smile has been uncomplicated. Her eyes do not seek yours the way they used to on the ship, as if, if she just looked long enough, you might choose her.

Ironically, it has made her more attractive to you.

"Our people?" she mouths, her words barely making a sound but you, of course, can here it.

You lean in again, over her ear. "Most made it to the shuttle. Those nearest us—I am unsure. Some were hit. Some scattered."

She nods, and you can tell she is assessing again. "Our situation?"

"Dire."

She smiles, a wry smile that reminds you of Jim. You wish Jim were here with you. But then you have wished that since you did not go with him to the launch. Too immersed in your own shattered pride to want to be part of what he called a "dog and pony show." Had you gone, might he have lived?

"How dire?"

"We are safe for now." You have employed the stealth field you were given to test. It is hiding you from the sensors of those who attacked your temporary base. You are in the woods, and they have not checked this far out for survivors, but while their equipment may not find you, a visual check would.

"If they come, leave me."

"No."

She grimaces in the same way Jim would have. The look that says she thinks she should argue but will not. She was involved with Jim briefly after you died and were reborn. It should not surprise you that she picked up his expressions. Perhaps she had them all along? You do not know her well, despite her relationship with your best friend.

The two of you never formed your own friendship. You were preoccupied with regaining what you had lost—and then Valeris came into your life. Christine was not on the ship with you, or you would have been forced to interact with her. She was in ops then, too.

You never asked Jim why they stopped seeing each other. You did not care.

Now, you find yourself curious. But you have not asked and you will not. Not now, while you wait for rescue or capture—both options seem equally likely at this point.

You do not tell her that. "The ship will come."

"If the shuttle made it," she mouths, this time making no noise. As if she does not want you to have to hear it if you do not wish to.

She closes her eyes, and you shift as silently as you are able, lying facing the rebels as they go through your camp, but you drop your hand near hers, so she knows you have not left her.

You can feel her pain through the soft touch. You are not sure how she is bearing it, but she stays quiet. Her breathing is that of deep meditation, and you imagine your father teaching her this technique, because you recognize the pattern of breath as Vulcan.

But perhaps Starfleet teaches it—why do you assume your father has done so?

Are you jealous of your father?

Her breath catches as pain flares and you press your hand harder against hers. She presses back and you feel gratitude but also regret.

You do not want her to feel that. She is enduring this in a way that merits no censure. You slide your fingers over hers, rubbing gently, feeling her relax finally.

Her breath resumes the measured rhythm.

You keep your fingers on her and settle in to wait.

##

The rebels are showing signs of alarm but you are not sure why. One of them is looking your direction, but you are sure the trees are camouflaging where you are lying next to Christine.

Then he turns away and you exhale softly.

"Close call?" Again her voice is so soft you can barely hear her.

You squeeze her hand twice. She murmurs, "Good," so you know she understands your code. It is not a very sophisticated system, Starfleet standard in fact. And how Pike answered from his chair. Two flashes for "No," one flash for "Yes." You think of him—is he still alive on Talos IV?

You study Christine. With her hair dark, she looks like Number One. The first time you saw Christine, you were sure she must be related to your former colleague. But you checked her file and she is not.

Suddenly your communicator begins to buzz. "Spock here," you say as softly as you can and still be heard.

"We're ready to beam you up but we can't see you, Ambassador." Captain Anders is whispering; she is highly intelligent, and you have enjoyed working with her.

"We are in a vulnerable position. If I disable the field that is blocking us from the rebels' sensors, we will be seen."

"Then we'll work fast. You said 'we.'"

You are already disabling the field. "I am with Commander Chapel, who is injured. We are ready for beam up now."

One of the rebels looks down at what is probably similar to a tricorder and points in your direction. There is yelling, and Christine struggles to sit up as the sounds grow louder.

"Now would be a good time," she mutters, then gasps in pain.

You see the makeshift sutures you worked so hard on split. Blood flows, a steady stream, and she immediately applies pressure. "Shit, Spock. How bad am I?"

As the transporter takes you, you murmur, "Very," but there are doctors waiting, who go to work on her immediately. As you start to get up, one of them says, "Ambassador, you're bleeding, too. Why don't you get on this gurney?"

"There is no need. It is her blood."

"Sir, it's green."

You frown and the man points to your shoulder. You realize your robe is wet but it has stuck to the wound, closing it, you think, or at least slowing the bleeding. "It is not serious."

"Nevertheless, let's discuss it more in sickbay, okay?" His tone brooks no argument so you nod, but you wave away the gurney.

"I will walk."

"Okey dokey." He turns to help the other doctor with Christine. The bleeding has stopped, and you think they have given her something for pain.

"She cannot see."

"She told us."

Of course she did. She is a doctor, after all. You did not have to tell them that.

But you would not want them to not attend to her because you did not convey the information—for it to become permanent by your inaction.

"Spock, quit worrying about me." Her voice is the level of tranquil that is derived from a copious amount of painkillers.

When you arrive at sickbay, she is taken to one of the surgical rooms while you are led to a biobed. A little while later, as you sit waiting for the nu-skin to fully adhere, Anders comms and lets you know your people—or the bodies, but less of those than you feared—have been beamed up. "Thank you, Captain."

"You rest. This mission is over."

You close your eyes. Yes, this mission is over.

Christine is brought back out. There are patches over her eyes and you are not sure if they are there as treatment or because she will not see. You look at the doctor, gesturing to your eyes.

"Wow, is he protective of you, Commander." The doctor grins. "She's going to be fine. Her vision will come back in a few hours. The pads will help the swelling go down."

Christine smiles. "Thank you, Javi."

"You're my favorite patient, Chris."

"You say that to everyone you treat." She sounds relaxed and sleepy, no doubt from pain meds.

"Nope, just to you." He lays his hand on her shoulder before leaving, and you feel a rush of anger and possession so strong it leaves you shaken.

You want to get up, follow him, challenge—no. Not yet. You should have several years before the burning returns. But you have always been irregular. You see a scanner on the counter and get up gingerly, trying not to jar the nu-skin—and also not to be noticed—and scan yourself.

Yes, there, the beginning signs. But it will be several weeks before you are in full rut. You sigh and replace the scanner but, rather than getting back on the bed, pull a stool over to sit by her biobed.

"Aren't you supposed to be resting?" she asks, her voice soft and untroubled. "He gives the best meds. He doesn't want me moving around the way you are after you both worked so hard to patch me up, so I get extra happy juice to keep me still."

"Are you in pain?"

"Nope." She reaches out and you take her hand and feel a surge of protectiveness fill you.

Is this because the two of you have been working together, getting to know each other? And that you have saved her and grown even closer to her in the process? Or because the burning is making her seem more attractive?

"Thank you," she murmurs. "You took such good care of me. Javi told me he didn't know how you got the bleeding stopped. I told him you were innovative that way."

She pulls your hand to her lips and kisses it. You feel the touch...everywhere.

Then she laughs and says, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that."

"I will forgive it."

"Are our people okay?"

"Nearly all. Not Templeton or Hayden. But Captain Anders recovered their bodies."

"That's the part of this job I hate, Spock. The goddamn bodies."

She sighs and lets go of your hand, reaching up toward her eyes, so you say, "Leave your eyes alone."

"I just want to—"

"Christine, that is an order."

"Jeez, I'm a doctor, Spock." She takes a deep breath. "I can't even remember what that life was like I've been doing this so long. But it's nice to work with you. I mean I work with Sarek so often, but you've managed to avoid me."

You bite back the jealousy at how easily she says your father's name. "I have...enjoyed working with you."

"I don't think we've ever spent this much time together." She yawns. "I'm so tired, Spock."

"Then sleep."

"Don't want to. Want to talk to you while you're here. Won't get the chance again." She frowns. "Stupid medicine. I didn't mean that."

"I believe you did." You resist the urge to stroke her hair.

"You should know that I never, ever would have accosted you if it hadn't been for that damned virus. I would have enjoyed my little crush in silence." She laughs. "But once it was out, in for a penny, in for a pound, I guess. I never let you have any peace. So stupid."

"That is an exaggeration. We had a few uncomfortable moments. And some quite pleasant." You shift to get more comfortable.

"Spock, get back up on your bed."

"I am fine."

"You're stubborn. Always have been. Just like Jim." She swallows hard. "I miss him, Spock."

"I do as well."

"And you probably miss Valeris?" She holds up a hand. "No, sorry, don't answer that. It's none of my business."

"I will—"

"No, I mean it. I don't know why I asked. Of course you miss her. You were going to marry her, weren't you?"

"Eventually, yes."

"Everyone's gone. Jim and Cartwright. Valeris. Scotty. Don't die, okay?" The drugs seem to be making her sleepier.

"I will not die."

"You died once already but came back. Can't keep a good man down."

You think she is asleep but wait a few more minutes to make sure. When her breathing changes definitively, you find the doctor who was touching her in his office.

"I believe the nu-skin adherence is complete."

He gets up and does a quick check. "Sure is."

You scan his office for pictures—humans often display family shots. There—this man and another and three children. "Your family?" you ask, as if you are being nothing more than polite.

"Yeah. The lights of my life. You married?"

"No." Finally, a man who does not appear to know your history with Valeris.

Although there are no doubt many who do not. You are just overly sensitive right now. And the imminent burning is not helping that.

Still, it is a relief that this man is not interested in Christine, or if he is, can offer her nothing.

With a last look at Christine, you head out to the quarters Anders assigned the diplomatic and ops teams. You want to check on your people—you know Christine would accompany you if her injuries were not so severe.

In fact, she would probably be leading the way.

##

You stand outside Christine's apartment, wondering if calling first would have been prudent. You decide it is immaterial: you are here and she may or may not answer the door, she may or may not be alone. But if she is, you must speak with her.

She does answer the door when you ring the chime. She invites you inside and you sense no other person in the place. "What's the occasion?"

"I wished to check on you. Your eyesight. It is fully restored?"

"Yeah." She frowns. "It was the last time you saw me."

"Yes, but complications may arise..." That sums up so much of why you are here but you try to approach the issue indirectly. "Did my father teach you the meditation you were using to stay calm when you were injured?" From her perplexed expression, you can see this was not the best indirect approach to take.

"Kind of a weird turn in the conversation but okay, yeah, he did. On Denicia. A mission so frustrating we thought we'd come out of our skin. We busted ass to get there and then had to wait, wait, wait. The bureaucrats had red-tape creation down to an art form. Your dad taught me meditation and I taught him hangman. I think he got the better end of the deal since I taught him my failsafe word. Pleghm." She frowns when you don't react. "Okay, I didn't expect a guffaw, but a little eyebrow lift of levity, maybe?"

You are trying to imagine your father playing hangman. You can envision what he would have had to say if he had caught you playing that as a boy. The...disapproval. Did he play it with Christine because he was bored or because any time spent with her is desirable? The thought of him with you makes you want to pull her to you and—no. You must not think of that. "I wish...I wish to know the level of your friendship with my father."

"Excuse me?"

"Are you involved with him?"

Her mouth falls open, and you feel a surge of frustration. How difficult is it to simply answer the question?

She studies you. "Your father and I are friends, just as your mother and I are." She waits, then laughs but it is a puff of air, a bitter sound.

"That could be an evasion. If the three of you—"

"Are not lovers, Spock, jeez." She goes to her desk and pulls a scanner from the drawer. "The look in your eye. The bizarre jumps in logic. I've seen these things before."

Before she can turn the scanner on, you hold up your hand. "Do not."

"Because I'm right?" She gets closer but does not try to scan you. "I know you're not here to ask me to help you with your biological issue."

You are so surprised that you take a moment to fully parse her words. Yes, she is refusing you. "You have always been receptive—"

"Always? When, in the last umpteen years, have I showed any interest?"

"When you were injured. When I touched you, I felt..."

"You felt gratitude. Perhaps you felt some residue of a goddamn crush from years ago. I was high as a kite on painkillers and alone in a strange sickbay. You certainly did not feel love from me. Or do you not care if love is in the mix now that the two people you cared the most for are gone?"

You back up, surprised at her vehemence. "I saved you."

"Yes, you did." She scans you before you can stop her. "But you've got time to get to Vulcan. Plenty of time, in fact. So I'm not in a position to have to save you." She moves away even though you think normally she would have moved closer, to make her point, to show her anger. "You saved me because it was your goddamn duty to save me. We were on a mission. The only one we've ever worked together. I appreciate what you did for me. I would, of course, return the favor—and have saved you, when I was a doctor. But you're not dying. You're just...fuck, I have no idea what you are. Horny? Primal?"

She puts the scanner away and goes into the kitchen, keeping the counter between you. "Go to Vulcan, Spock. I know there are ways for you to work this out without me."

"I have approached this badly. I...feel things—interest—in you."

"Well maybe, once your hormones go back to normal, we can explore that." She is watching you carefully—what does she think you will do?

"If my father asked, would you...?"

"Why in God's name would your father ask me? He has a wife he loves beyond all measure. I'm a person he likes to work with because we approach things the same way. That professional rapport has grown into a friendship with both of them despite the fact that I once made an ass of myself over their son. The three of us have all moved on from that embarrassing time. Why the fuck can't you?" She points to the door. "Leave. Now."

You almost want to call her bluff. To see what she will do—if this outrage is real or just other emotion redirected. But then you see a spark of something you did not expect in her eyes.

Fear. Does she think you would force yourself on her?

You move to the door. "Of course, Commander. I regret troubling you in this matter."

"You and me both," you hear her say as the door closes behind you.

For a long moment, you stand outside her door, replaying what just happened. Then you turn and head to the embassy to make arrangements. There is a protocol for this, of course. You are not the only unbonded Vulcan on Earth.

You realize you are disappointed, but there is also a deeper feeling, as if the ground has shifted beneath your feet. You always assumed, if you decided to pursue her, that she would be willing—even eager—and would welcome you however and whenever you needed her.

You very clearly assumed wrong.

##

You sit on the porch of your family home, in the chair you have favored since you were a boy. Even post Pon Farr, your hormones are making you emotional—overcome with a wave of nostalgia, a need for things familiar.

Your parents are sitting in the swing your mother insisted your father put up for her. You know the slight effort of keeping the swing in motion allows her to express some of the emotional energy she keeps hidden. You remember the first time you understood that blending into Vulcan society was not the effortless act she made it seem. How...relieved you felt.

Your parents have not asked why you are on Vulcan, but they surely know, even if these things are not spoken of, so you drink tea and eat the dry biscuits that were once your favorites, and talk of other things.

Safe things. Things of interest to your father. Less so to your mother, but she seems happy just to have you near.

At a lull in the conversation, you ask softly, "Will you be seeing Commander Chapel soon?"

The Pon Farr may be over, but you cannot erase her from your thoughts.

"She's coming to dinner next week." Your mother grins at your father, and you feel a pang. Valeris looked at you in just such a way, as if there were a multitude of secrets between you, amusing secrets. You miss that.

Your father's look is amused, but that fades when he turns back to you. "Why do you ask, my son?"

"She is your friend, is she not?"

"Indeed. A kindred intellect. And a woman of fine character."

"Also, he's allowed to date her if anything happens to me." Your mother laughs, as if what she has said is not appalling to consider. "He cannot, however, date that shrew T'Menla."

"T'Menla has no interest in me, my wife. We have discussed this."

"That woman simpers. Tell me she's not simpering the next time you see her. And she hates me."

"Vulcans do not hate," you repeat dutifully, the lesson drilled into you.

"Oh, Spock. Don't be naïve." Your mother studies her. "Why are you asking, darling? You've never shown any interest in what we do with Christine."

"If it does not disrupt your arrangements, I should like to be included this time."

Your father's eyebrow nearly disappears under his hair. "Indeed, my son?"

"You might, however, wish to ascertain if she is comfortable with me being there." Why are you telling them this? Why did you come home, where you are suddenly speaking your mind like the boy who had not yet learned to keep his own counsel? You should have gone to one of the retreats, should have meditated and found your center before returning here.

"Do you think she would not welcome your presence?" Your father's voice is...concerned.

"I am uncertain." There, let him make of that what he will.

"Fascinating."

"Oh, Sarek, don't tease him." Your mother actually elbows your father quite hard. "Christine asks about you all the time. I'm not sure she even knows she does it. She was quite happy when Valeris was dragged off where she belongs."

"My wife..."

"Oh, piffle, Sarek. Don't tell me to not criticize. The girl was horrid. Why you picked her, Spock, I'll never know."

"She made me feel Vulcan." You close your eyes. Again, your body betrays you, your mouth speaking before your sense can intervene.

"I understand that, my son," your father says. "Upon reflection, I believe she cultivated that. She isolated you, but I don't think you realized. You spent far less time with us, even with James Kirk, when you were with her."

"That's because Jim would have seen through her in a hot second. And wasn't Cartwright his friend?" Your mother sounds disgusted, but you think it is less at your choice and more at Valeris's actions. "Cartwright probably wanted you submerged in her." She shakes her head. "The hell of it was you were happy, Spock. And I was happy for you even if I wished it was with someone other than that snake."

"Someone like Christine?"

"Just exactly. Are you interested in her, Spock?" She grins and you know if you say yes, you will make her very happy.

You wonder how your father will feel. He is waiting for your answer, interest on his face, but not with any sign of possession. You think he does not take your mother's talk of successors as seriously as your mother made it sound.

"I am uncertain," you settle for saying.

"You are uncertain of a great many things, my son." It could be a rebuke, but your father's voice is mild—kind, even, for one of your interactions.

You realize it might please him if you were interested in Christine.

Again, you feel the old rebellion rising. The impulsive reaction of wanting to go left if your father says to turn right.

There is no logic in it and it makes you, again, feel like a child.

##

A week later, you are sitting with your father in the embassy, in the lounge of your parents' private quarters, as your mother quietly orders the servers around. It amuses you how she can get anyone to do her bidding with her soft voice and eyes and a backbone of pure duranium.

You hear Christine before you see her; your mother's voice changes to one of true pleasure. There is such affection in her tone, her words. There is a commensurate amount in Christine's.

Your father looks over at you. His eyebrow goes up, but you are uncertain what message he is trying to convey. Not surprise: you both knew she would be here. Support? Concern? Amusement?

You suppress a sigh and merely lift an eyebrow in response. Let him interpret it however he wants.

"Where's Sarek? I found this for him."

"In the lounge, dear."

Your mother follows Christine in and goes to join Sarek on the couch. "Christine, Spock's going to be joining us."

She freezes, but you give her credit for a quick recovery. "How nice." She does not sound like she means it.

"Christine." You try to sound welcoming.

"Spock." It is too cold—she is not sounding welcomed. But she clearly did not expect you to be here.

Why did your parents not tell her as you suggested? She is off balance and the flush on her cheeks speaks to some level of anger.

Your father and mother are watching both of you like two naturalists, observing the courtship rituals of exotic animals with some sort of non-interference policy. You would glare at them if you did not think Christine would assume it was directed at her.

You search for something to say and finally focus on the scarf she is wearing. "Is that Tantallian Silk?"

"It is. It's what I wanted to show your father. I told you it came in red. Your bullshit story about red dye not sticking to the fabric... You owe me a drink next time we're on a ship."

"But it took you a year to prove me wrong."

"You two and that game." Your mother grins at you. "What is it called again, Christine?"

"Facts that may not be true." She laughs. "Or idiotic games you'll play when hangman get old."

"It is difficult to believe your missions can have so much down time," you say into their shared amusement.

She turns to look at you. "I know you're not saying we're slacking, are you?"

Your father turns to you, clearly also waiting for the answer.

"It is simply," you say, steepling your fingers, a sign Jim would know was an attempt to regroup, "that I have found on my missions I generally have much reading to do."

"Oh, Spock, clearly you need to travel more with Christine." Your mother grins at you. "She'd drag you away from your padds and tell you to live a little."

"Or perhaps it is simply that I have more experience, my son. When I was new in diplomacy, I too spent much time preparing."

Your father's words could be interpreted as a graceful out. They could also be seen as a criticism. You are not sure how to take them, so you nod to show him you understand his point.

"Oh, the food's here. Let's sit." Your mother and father head off, leaving you with Christine.

She swallows visibly. "You're...recovered from...?"

"Yes."

"Great."

"Thank you for your concern."

"Sure."

You both stare at each other for a moment, then she turns and almost flees into the dining room.

You resolve to let your parents draw her out since you do not envision your chance of succeeding conversationally with her to be high.

And they do put her at ease. Your father is visibly lighter. Your mother is animated and laughing. Christine's smile is beautiful. When you manage not to insult her or your father again, she even begins to glance your way, the smile slightly less wide but still attractive.

At the end of the meal, your father says, "Unfortunately, I have a late meeting tonight. But stay, Christine. Keep my wife and son company."

"It's getting late and tomorrow's a busy day. But thank you. I enjoyed this." She looks at you and her smile wavers.

"I, too, should go. I will walk with you, Christine. Father. Mother." You get up and see both your parents wearing twin looks of concern.

"You will?" Christine asks, glaring at you in what is clearly exasperation, then turning the look on your parents. "Did you put him up to this?"

"We did not," Sarek says. "But it is on his way."

You do not need your father finding logic for you to walk this woman home. But when she nods as if he has said something wise, you decide not to voice that thought. Instead, you get your coat and hers and follow her out.

"I'm sorry," she says as soon as you are clear of the embassy. "I know they pushed dinner on you and it was uncomfortable and—"

"You are mistaken. I asked to be included. I realize it was awkward, but did I do wrong to want to be included—to experience your relationship with them?" You want her to answer definitively: yes, you did wrong or no, you did not. So you can move forward with her or try to forget this.

She stops and studies you, her expression searching. "The Pon Farr is over."

"Indeed."

"But you wanted to be with...me, with them, even though it was going to be difficult?"

You nod.

Her expression softens and voice is very gentle. "Then no, you didn't do wrong." Before you can enjoy the moment, she turns and walks off and you have to hurry to catch up.

"It's cold and I have an early meeting, Spock. I'm not trying to ditch you." She glances over at you. "I also don't want to have some sappy moment on the sidewalk. But if you want, you can come up for a while."

"Yes. That would be agreeable." You decide, as the damp cold becomes more uncomfortable, that she is right to hurry, that there is logic in her actions—to get out of the chill of this misty night.

But you would have stood on the sidewalk if she had wanted you to. The dichotomy of her logic to your sentimentality bemuses you slightly.

She turns into her apartment and you follow her to the elevator. She does not look at you as the lift rises, and you follow her off and to her door without comment.

In her apartment, which has a beautiful view of the water, she pours herself what looks like whisky and makes a gesture you realize is her asking you what you want.

"I am fine." You sit on the couch, in a spot that leaves enough space for her to also sit there without feeling uncomfortably close.

She sits down next to you, perches almost, and takes a long sip of her drink. It does not smell exactly like Jim's scotch or Leonard's bourbon, but you decide not to ask her what it is. "So, um, how's work, Spock?" She laughs softly and shakes her head, and you feel a return of the stilted conversation of dinner.

You think you have two options. One is to leave and give up the idea that you and she will ever regain the ease of your talk when she was injured—and, if you are fair to her, highly medicated. The other is to lean in, slowly undo the scarf she is wearing and ease it off her, and then fold it as you tell her to close her eyes.

"Why?" Her voice holds more curiosity than concern.

"When you were injured and could not see, we talked with so little effort."

"You want to blindfold me?"

You nod and hold the scarf up so she can lean into it.

She does not move. "So, you and Valeris were into bondage games, I guess?"

You think she is trying to goad you. Both by bringing up Valeris and making a joke of this. You merely wait.

Unfortunately, she outwaits you. She is like your father in that way. It is not surprising he enjoys working with her. "No, she and I were not. Can you not indulge me, Christine? I do not plan on seducing you."

"That's a huge relief because I'm relatively sure you'd suck at it." She laughs and leans into the blindfold. "Fine, I'll play your kinky games."

You tie it around her head, making sure not to catch her hair in the knot. And you find yourself relaxing without her eyes on you, judging, perhaps no longer wanting.

But then she licks her lips, and you realize she is nervous too. You want to touch her, to read her, but you think she would view that as cheating, so you resist the urge.

"What now, Spock?"

"Tell me three things it would surprise me to know about you." It is a question you ask new members of your team. Their answers are often illuminating.

"Jim teach you that one?" Her smile is crooked. You realize you have never noticed that.

"He did not."

"Hmmm. If I answer, you have to tell me three things, too."

"That is only fair." You lean back and she does too, and she stops jiggling her knee, something you did not realize she was doing until the motion ceases.

"Can you get my glass while I think?"

You reach for her drink and hold it to her lips. She drinks much more slowly than the first, desperate sip. Before you put it back on the coaster, you smell it more thoroughly. "This is whisky, yes? It smells...spicier than I remember."

"That's because it's rye." She laughs softly. "So that's my first thing. I love rye."

"I knew that you enjoy drinking. I am not sure specifying what you like to drink qualifies."

"What, I have to stun you with my answers?" She shakes her head. "I'm rolling my eyes—something you could see if you didn't have a scarf fetish. Hey, is that one of your three things?"

"No." Although you are not sure what you will tell her. You have not thought this through.

"Okay." She crosses her legs and you watch the movement, finding it...seductive, but you do not think she means it to be. "When I was a little girl, I was crazy about horses. I wanted one so bad. And I never got it. And my parents were always moving for work. Every time, when we were somewhere that had horses and a place to ride, I'd think this is my chance. But then we wouldn't stay there long enough for it to matter." She laughs softly again, but this time the laughter is only gentle puffs of air. "I'm not sure why I told you that. It's hardly groundbreaking."

"Jim had horses."

Her smile widens. "He did. We went riding all the time when he was on Earth."

"He never told me why you and he..."

"That's a story I'm not ready to tell you yet."

You nod but then realize she cannot see the movement. "All right."

She has gone still, except for her knee, which she is jiggling again. " Maybe, maybe I should tell you. Now, rather than later. Now so you can judge me and run like hell, and I can take this goddamn scarf off." She points in the general direction of her glass and snaps her fingers.

You get it and hold it to her lips again. This time, the sip is like the first. Frantic. "You do not have to tell me anything you do not wish to."

She eases back. "But I think I do. Because I think you've decided you want me and you don't even know me."

You wait.

"He and I were happy when we were together. But...I was on the ship, Spock, during those first two voyages and I saw how many women..." She takes a breath, ragged and long, then lets it out. "I thought...I thought he cheated on me. A friend told me he'd seen him with this woman, dancing close. I confronted Jim and he...he shut down. He swore he hadn't slept with her, but the fact that I though he had, that I didn't trust him..."

Her leg stops moving, she sits quietly, and you wait.

"After Roger, after seeing him with that damn replica of a woman who was in his class the year before I was, who came around all the time and he swore was only a friend... Well, I think I lost my ability to trust. So that's my second thing. I don't trust." She leans out, looking for her glass with her hands, and you let her, sensing she needs to find it herself. She does and sips slowly. "I've never told anyone that. When Jan asked, I made shit up about the long-distance aspect not working. I told Ny I was still hung up on you. Len...Len knew because Jim told him. He still looks at me with a look that's nothing but disappointment. Like maybe..." She stops, and you realize her lips are trembling.

"Like maybe what?"

"Like maybe Jim wouldn't have gone to the launch if I'd still been with him." She whispers it.

"Christine, his ship—even if it was not his version of it—was being given to someone else. Someone he considered, and I quote, 'A goddamned idiot.' There is nothing you could have done to keep him away." You reach for her hand, touch it so quickly you cannot read her but hopefully can give some comfort. "I, however, feel that I let him down. That he would be alive if I had gone with him. Perhaps that is one of my three things."

"Or you might have died with him."

"Or that."

"And then who would have saved me?" Her voice is very soft.

"A gracious out that you are trying to give me, but I have faith someone else would have saved you. You might not have even been on that mission. I was, after all, the one who thought they were ready for talks."

"You were? You didn't tell me that."

"No, because I was wrong in my assessment. And that is the second of my three things. I can be wrong from time to time and do not like to admit it."

She smiles gently, and you decide it is your favorite of her smiles. A sweet turn of her lips with her eyes crinkling slightly under the scarf—or so you imagine.

"Christine, is your third thing that you no longer love me?"

"Do I know you well enough to really love you?" She is not saying that to be unkind. She sounds truly curious.

"Perhaps not. Our interactions were limited, despite how long we have been acquainted."

"Is your third thing that you might be able to love me? Now that you think I don't want you?"

"I think I could always have cared for you. But I wanted a Vulcan."

She nods, and reaches up, untying the scarf, taking back control. She blinks for a moment as she drops the scarf onto the table. "I still care."

"I no longer need my partner to be a Vulcan."

Her eyes are piercing. She says nothing but frowns a little.

You decide to elaborate. "When I grew up, I could never attain the Vulcan ideal. I wanted to please my father, and yet I also chafed whenever I felt his control. He and I still do not always see things the same way. But feeling that I would never be good enough for him made someone like Valeris extremely attractive. She was utterly Vulcan and yet she wanted me over all others—and did not seek to change me, accepted me as I was." You stop and remember how she made you feel. Special and understood—and good enough. "When I forced the meld to gain the information about the conspiracy, I could see her feelings for me were genuine. She thought I would approve eventually. That I would see her logic. I did not. I never will. But knowing that she, a full Vulcan, could miscalculate so completely made me realize that the ideal I sought to attain did not exist." You allow yourself a miniscule smile. "I am not running from the idea of Vulcans. This is not a reaction to being betrayed. It is freedom from needing that approbation."

"So I'll do?" She still sounds wary.

"I have never been unmoved by you. And I am here despite how uncomfortable dinner was at times tonight."

"Uncomfortable between us—I had a great time with your parents."

You nod, unable to argue that.

"Are you jealous of that?" she asks softly. "Sarek is so comfortable with me."

You decide to give her the truth. "I am."

She purses her lips. "So I could be your way to him. Maybe I'm just another Valeris?"

"I was moved by you long before you earned the esteem of my father."

She smiles. "Good answer." She touches the scarf. "And without this." She finishes her drink and gets up. "You sure you don't want something?"

"I should go. You have an early meeting, do you not?"

She starts to laugh. "With Admiral Baker. How do you know that?"

"Because I will also be there. I have requested you for my next mission."

"Am I going to get shot again?"

"It is not a mission goal."

She laughs and puts her glass in the sink. "Guess I should get some sleep, then." She walks you to the door. "Did you plan the blindfold thing?"

"No. I was...searching for a way to create some comfort between us."

"Well," she says, as she leans in and kisses your cheek, a lingering touch that lets you read that she is pleased with you, "it was genius."

You cup her cheek, enjoying the softness of her skin, the sweetness of her regard. Then you let go and leave her in peace. You will see her again in the morning. You find yourself looking forward to that with a great deal of pleasure.

##

You walk back to the camp of temporary shelters that has grown every day that you've been on this planet. You see your people working with the ops personnel and wonder how Christine managed to woo them into manual labor.

"I am impressed at your progress—and your expanded team," you say, as you slip in beside her to steady a panel. "But why is the corps of engineers not called in for this?"

"Oh, they will be, once you finish what you're doing and the planet is ready for more permanent solutions. What we're doing here is just triage. No one should live in these for long, but they're better than nowhere." While she finishes fastening the panel, she indicates you should get the next one for her by pointing and snapping her fingers the same way she did when she wanted her drink when you were at her apartment.

You do what she wants, but lift your eyebrow. "You appear to have me well trained."

She peeks around the panel and laughs, her smile teasing. "Hey, it works. Don't tell me your mother didn't make that very same gesture some of the time?"

You have to concede that with a nod.

Someone shouts out, "People?" and she laughs and answers, "Yo" along with the other ops personnel.

"We're running low on panels. Anything you need from the shuttle while I get the next pallet?"

"Moonshine," someone yells.

"Duct tape," someone else says.

"And cayenne pepper," Christine says, laughing.

You realize this is a chant of sorts, a way to build team spirit. It makes little sense, but you see your people—the humans, at any rate—laugh. The Vulcans look perplexed and are perhaps trying to assess what you would make with those three ingredients.

"Anything you want" is, you imagine, the answer Christine would tell you.

You work for a time, then say, "I must, regretfully, remove my team. I have information we need to discuss."

"Thank you for letting me borrow them."

"I was not aware I let you do anything."

"Smart man," she says, her smile sweet and you think untroubled.

She relishes this, you realize. Helping others. Being with her team. She disappears into the group at moments like this, but you have seen her take a strong leadership role at other times during this mission.

"I managed to snag the vegetarian meals for you and Solat and T'Kemra. Some of my folks were eying them."

"Most kind."

"See, I can save you." She laughs at your expression then calls out to the team, "Diplomats: your boss needs you. Thank you so much for helping—we'll save you some moonshine. You can find us in the same place tomorrow if you're in the mood to pitch in again." She grins at you and mouths, "See you later," then turns back to the panel.

You think your people look slightly disappointed to leave the work and go sit in the temporary shelter you've taken as your base. But they let it go as you expect and settle in to analyze what you've brought back. The discussion is spirited and you enjoy again the team you've created, how they work together, how different each individual is in terms of age and experience and background. They force you to consider options you might not otherwise.

Eventually, after you wrap up, T'Kemra asks, "Cayenne pepper and duct tape are items I am familiar with. What is moonshine?"

The humans make faces that universally translate to something unpleasant.

"It is an alcoholic beverage," you answer.

She lifts an eyebrow at the humans. "Why would you drink it if it is as horrid as your expressions indicate?"

"I believe," you say, "that they will not be drinking moonshine. Copious amounts of other spirits, but not that."

"Actually," Wainwright says, grinning, "it's making a comeback."

Sandoza rolls her eyes. "Every year, people say that. Every year, sane people reach for tequila instead."

You lean back and let their good-natured squabbling become white noise. You are tired. The talks are long and there is much to lose if the planet decides to reject the terms the Federation has put forth for long-term assistance.

You find yourself envying Christine and her team. Their job this mission is straightforward and satisfying. It is easy to chart progress when you have buildings erected and people treated for injuries and illness as evidence. Less satisfying for you—at least until the agreement is signed.

You get up, motioning for T'Kemra to walk with you and update you on anything that transpired in your absence. She mentions Christine, how she convinced some of the local children to draw pictures to hang in each building. Pictures that would welcome those moving in. T'Kemra approves but not because she values the sentimentality of the gesture, more the logic of giving the children—and by extension the parents who will watch their children draw the welcoming pictures—a stake in all this.

You are pleased Christine has impressed her, but Christine impressed your father, so other Vulcans should be a simple matter.

You freshen up in the temporary quarters and then sit next to Christine at a table a little away from the group. She has your meals there and a bottle of water for you.

You open the box and take a bite, trying to fight the ridiculous notion that the food will be enjoyable. Of course it is not. That you can still manifest hope after this many missions is no doubt a sign of something you do not want to examine too deeply. Instead, you turn to her and say, "There was some debate on my team over whether moonshine is back in fashion."

She grins. "We do have it this time—white dog is apparently all the rage with the younger set. No rye, though—I'm going to have words with whoever stocked our 'adult beverages' for this trip. Oh and we have this." She lifts the bottle of beer she is drinking from. "Got a lot of young 'uns this trip so I'll stay sober—or mostly so. Sometimes I feel like their mom."

You know she probably is also well stocked with antitox or she would not be drinking at all. "I do not believe they view you as that—or as only that. I sense a deep camaraderie in your team."

"They're good people. I'll keep them." She leans against you for a moment, then pulls away quickly. "Shit, I'm sorry. I must be super tired to do that."

"I did not mind. No one is watching us."

"Someone is always watching us. We're the leads. But if you don't care, neither do I." She does not repeat the action despite her words.

You know that is appropriate, but you are somewhat disappointed, nonetheless.

"How goes the war?" she asks. "Progress?"

"Yes. Miniscule steps toward agreement."

"Glad I'm not you. I'd go nuts sitting in a room for hours listening to people yammer on. Give me something to do."

"It is, at times, trying." You study her. "I am...glad that you are on this mission. I have something to look forward to at the end of the day."

"Aww, that's so sweet."

"Are you also glad...?"

"Meh." She laughs at your expression. "Yes, I am. I like spending time with you. Much to my surprise." She assumes a mock stern expression, but you know what she is referring to.

"I wish to apologize. For...assuming you would help me with my personal issue."

"Thank you." She doesn't look away. "I may not always say no, if that's of interest to you."

"Indeed it is." You can feel parts of yourself express particular interest.

Her smile says she was aware exactly what effect her words would have on you.